#one car window decal

[xiaq]

Shockingly, I could not find a “moody floral Star Trek laptop case,” so I had to get creative and make my own.

[orcelito]

Ok so the person I had for my driving test was really nice, actually. I mentioned how I do have glasses but it's a light prescription so I might be able to do the sight test without them & I'd like to try. And he was chill with it, just said that whatever I did in the place I had to do during the test too. Which apparently I don't need 20/20, I just need at least one eye to pass it. So I did!!! My left eye definitely didn't see good enough lol but my right eye managed it. Which means I don't have a glasses restriction on my license. I just need to have mirrors on both sides, which pretty much all cars do these days.

So I drove without my glasses. It went fine! Just made me a little more nervous about reading speed limit signs, but I managed. I didn't even have to do parallel parking for it lol. He just had me drive thru some residential areas, thru a school zone, etc etc. I was very careful to not speed at All and to fully stop at every stop sign. Etc etc.

Got out of the car and he was like "now that we're out of the car, congratulations! You passed!!" And I was so keyed up on nerves that it didn't fully sink in immediately hdkshfks but it's sinking in I think

I passed my driving skills test!!! I have my license!!!!! Smth I've been so nervous about for TEN. YEARS. I finally did it!!!! And then I'll get my own car, and I'll be much more independent, and I can DO THINGS....!!!! Like go to the mall on a whim!!!!! Exciting!!!!!

[sapsolais]

'

[jaikoyaki]

One more chance.

//kim minji x reader//Street racing AU// Oneshot //

— Tied her down to my Queen bed. Tease her just enough to hate me.

SYPNOSIS ❯❯❯❯ Rivals, exes, idiots with fast cars. you race, you fight, you kiss—sometimes not in that order. tonight’s supposed to settle the score. but when has that ever gone to plan?

WARNINGS ❯❯❯❯ Suggestive jokes/themes, Explicit Language, gayness

TAGS ❯❯❯❯ Street Racing AU, Enemies/exes to something, Fluff, Mutual Pining, teeny tiny angst, Underground Racing Culture, FEM!READER

WC ❯❯❯❯ 3.3K

A/N ❯❯❯❯ Bro. Why do all my writing sprees start at 1am. like thats my peak freak hour. I nearly titled this “fast & freaky” 😿🙏 and every time I reread it in the morning I cringe so bad oml. Also fuck tumblr i got this accidentally posted this twice

Minji looks stupid good under neon.

Always has, always will.

She’s got on this oversized firetruck red windbreaker, slung off one shoulder, and a navy cap pulled low so the bold “P” hides her eyes. Not that it matters. You know that look. You’ve memorized it. 

Her little crew is wrapped around her like she’s royalty but you know better.

She never needed an entourage.

She had you.

Once, you were the one by her side. Closer than any of them.

Now you’re across the lot, gripping the wheel like it’s her hand and praying your engine doesn’t stall the second she glances your way again.

You’re parked right at the edge of the strip—an old shipping yard they turned into a half-legal racetrack, lit only by flickering floodlights and the glow of brake lights. Smoke curls into the sky from burnt-out tires. The air’s thick with gas, sweat, and something else you won’t name.

People are everywhere, perched on hoods, crowding around the starting line, drinks in hand, phones out. Some are here to race, most are just here to watch.

“YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!”

 The host’s voice crackles through the busted PA system, slicing through bass and bad decisions.

“Another night, another round of racing! Don’t cry when your bets flop! And don’t cry too hard when your car eats shit on the last corner!”

The crowd whoops. Somewhere behind you, someone lets off a firecracker.

You roll your eyes and lean back against your car, arms crossed over your chest.

“He’s getting more dramatic every time,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” Ryujin replies, slipping beside you, “but he’s right. Bet money’s gonna get ugly tonight.”

You shoot her a look. “You betting against me now?”

She snorts. “Please. I like my money where I can count it.”

 Then she elbows you. “You know Minji’s crew showed up an hour early just to scout the track?”

Your gaze flicks across the lot. Minji’s still there—right where you left her in your rearview mirror.

“Guess she’s worried.”

“Or,” Ryujin says, nudging your shoulder, “..she’s just taking it seriously. Word is a sponsor specifically requested this race.”

“What race?”

She deadpans. “The one you’re in. With her.”

You blink. “Huh..?”

Ryujin stares at you. “Did you not read the group chat?”

You definitely did not.

“Some hotshot sponsor asked for you two specifically. Said it’d draw a crowd.”

You frown. “Why? We always end up tying anyway.”

“Exactly,” she grins, “they eat that shit up. Everyone wants to see who’ll finally win.”

You sigh, turning your attention to the starting line where two cars rev. Another crew-versus-crew race about to start. One of the drivers signals to the crowd, standing half-out the window, hyping them up. His engine is loud like it's got something to prove. The other car flashes its headlights in response.

“Ten seconds!” the host calls out, voice echoing off rusted metal and sweat-slick concrete. A girl in fishnets raises her arms at the starting line, bandana fluttering from one wrist like a flag.

You and Ryujin watch in silence.

"That one’s from Jeno’s crew,” She murmurs, nodding toward the black Supra with matte decals. “He’s fast, but he always oversteers on turns. Cocky.”

You hum, eyes locked on the track.

The girl drops her arms.

Engines scream, tires screech, and the two cars launch forward like rockets.

The crowd erupts as they rip down the makeshift strip.

They drift the last corner hard, one nearly clipping the sidewall. It's messy, but it earns a cheer.

“Messy,” you mutter. “But ballsy.”

“Mhm,” Ryujin agrees. “Still won’t beat you, though.”

You flash her a small smile. But it fades the second you glance back across the lot—

Minji’s not in her spot anymore.

She’s moved closer to the track, standing just behind the barrier, closer than she needs to be.

And closer to you.

You spot her through the smoke just as another set of tires scream across the finish. She’s got that look on again—the one that says she’s thinking three steps ahead.

Well, fine. So are you.

You push off your car and stroll over, hands deep in your pockets, the smirk already forming.

“You finally come to get a better look?” you ask, stopping just a little too close. Like, you-can-smell-her-perfume close.

Minji doesn’t flinch. “Just wanted to see what kind of excuse your crew’s gonna spit out when you choke again.”

“Cute,” you grin. “You sound nervous.”

Her eyes slide to yours. “You wish.”

You laugh under your breath. “You always talk more when you're trying not to feel something.”

The parking lot was empty, save for the two of you and the occasional buzz of a streetlamp overhead.

“You should probably ease off throttle in that second turn. If the back end slips, counter-steering alone won’t be enough, you’ll need—” She paused, catching herself mid-ramble.

You raised an eyebrow, looking over. “Min.”

“What?”

“You’re overthinking again.”

Minji sighed, low and annoyed, more at herself than you. “I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You nervous?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the dark stretch of road beyond the lot, and her voice, when it came, was tight. “It’s not nerves. I just... like to be prepared.”

You nudged her with your shoulder. “And I know when you’re lying.”

She glanced at you, and for a second, something softened in her expression—like she wanted to admit it, to just let it out. But then the wall came back up. She took another sip of her drink, voice casual again. “Then stop asking dumb questions.”

You smiled. “You don’t have to be scared of losing.”

“I’m not,” she said, too fast.

And that was all the confirmation you needed.

Her jaw ticks, just barely.

Bullseye.

“I talk more when I’m bored,” she fires back, deadpan. “And you’re a slow burn.”

You tilt your head, lips twitching. “Funny. You weren’t bored last time you were in my backseat.”

Her jaw tightens.

“Oh—we’re still pretending that didn’t happen?” you say, sweetly venomous. “Should I shut up before your crew hears how loud you were?”

Minji’s team starts glancing around awkwardly. Yours is already watching like this is the undercard fight before the main event.

“And here I thought red was your lucky color,” you muse, eyeing the way it clings to her. “Still looks better crumpled up on my floor.”

That does it.

She spins on her heel and stalks back to her side without saying a word.

You watch her go, a smug little curl tugging at your lips.

She’s rattled.

Exactly where you want her.

–

Minji stalks back to her side of the lot. The crowd’s still buzzing, cheers, engines, someone yelling about lost bets—but she doesn’t hear any of it.

Her head’s still full of you.

Of the way your voice dropped, just enough to make her pulse beat faster. The stupid smirk you wore like it was your default face. God, it’s like you know exactly which buttons to push, and worse, you do it on purpose.

She’s halfway to her crew’s car when Hanni materializes beside her.

“She’s so annoying,” Minji mutters, yanking off her gloves one finger at a time like they personally offended her.

“And hot,” Hanni chimes in like she’s checking off a list. “Annoying and hot. The deadliest combo.”

Minji shoots her a look.

“What?” Hanni shrugs, hands buried in her hoodie pockets. “You keep racing her. That can’t just be about pride. Either you’re trying to prove something to her, or you’re hoping she rear-ends you and calls it foreplay.”

Minji glares. “Hanni.”

“I’m just saying, man.” Hanni says, all innocent. “You get weird when she’s around. Stiff. Clenchy. Very Batman-core.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Hanni cuts in. “You were flirting and fighting at the same time. Flirting-with-enemies-to-lovers pipeline speedrun.”

Minji scowls, dragging a hand through her hair. “It’s not—she’s just… distracting.”

Hanni grins. “Awww. She gets under your skin. That’s sooo gay of you.”

Minji doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have to. Her silence says enough, especially when her eyes flick back toward the track. Toward where you’re standing.

She still remembers the last time you two raced. The tie. The after. The stupid, breathless laugh you gave her in the dark when you said, “Bet you let me win.” As if she didn’t push her engine harder than she ever had that night just to keep up.

—

Fifteen minutes later, the host’s voice crackles to life again, loud and electric.

“ALRIIIIIGHT! We’ve got a special matchup tonight, folks—one straight outta hell!”

The crowd roars in anticipation.

“Back by very popular demand—Minji of the NJZ Crew, and Y/N from the 88s! You know ’em. You love ’em. You fear what’s gonna happen if one of them actually wins this time!”

People scream. Cameras flash. Phones are up, recording, live-streaming.

Bets are flying, shouted across the space like war shouts. You even hear someone yell “Fifty grand on the 88s!” over the din.

You step toward the line, helmet swinging from your fingers, engine still humming behind you.

Minji’s already there, leaning against her MR2 like she's posing for a photo. Her windbreaker gone, now tied loose around her waist. She’s in a fitted white tank stamped with I ❤️ ME, Her track pants sit low, hips tilted just so— and okay—

You almost hate how good she looks.

Almost.

She glances at you as you approach, then back to her car, jaw tight.

No words?

You grin.

“What? Not even a ‘good luck’? I thought you were a gracious loser, Min.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just shifts her weight and leans into the door of her car, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“I was just thinking…” she says, voice slow and deliberate, “how nice your car would look with my initials keyed into the hood.”

You blink. Your cocky grin falters for a second—just a second. Long enough for her to catch it.

She saw.

You recover quick, letting out a short laugh. “Dream big.”

She opens her door but pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s cute when you pretend you’re not nervous,” she says, voice pitched lower now. Just for you. “But I’ve seen the way your hands shake after a close race. You still get that adrenaline high?”

Your jaw clenches.

“Why, you offering to help me wind down after?”

She looks at you then. Really looks. Her eyes drag down your figure like she’s memorizing you.

“Only if you win,” she murmurs. “But we both know you won’t.”

You recover fast—ish. Coughing once. twice. Covering your smile with your hand. Okay. She wants to play like that now?

“You always flirt when you’re desperate?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. It almost works.

Minji raises a brow, eyes gleaming. “Desperate?” She steps closer. “L/N, if I wanted to rattle you, I wouldn’t be using words.”

You open your mouth—ready to snap back, or maybe choke—but the host’s voice cracks through the moment.

You blink.

Wait.

You were supposed to rattle her.

-

"Let’s make it spicy tonight, shall we?” the host’s voice booms over the speakers, dramatic. "Winner takes ten grand from our very generous sponsor and... who knows—might just walk away with a real racing contract. That’s right, our mystery backer’s in the lot tonight, hunting for the next underground icon. Think of it as your shot at going pro.”

Racing contract.

cheers and gasps ripple through the crowd. 

That’s new.

That’s everything you’ve ever wanted

Your heart stutters.

You glance at Minji. Her expression doesn’t change, but you notice how her fingers tighten on the wheel, the knuckles turning white.

“And hey,” the host adds, clearly having the time of his life, “loser’s still the winner’s bitch for the night!”

The crowd explodes.

You smirk behind the glass of your helmet as you finally slide it on, slow and deliberate. Your hands find the wheel like they belong there.

Minji’s already seated, belt clipped, gaze straight ahead.

No more talking.

But you don’t need words to know what she’s thinking.

She wants this.

Bad.

Just like you.

The girl from earlier steps back onto the track, arms raised, bandana whipping in the wind.

Red.

Your foot taps the gas once—just enough to feel the purr of your engine under your heel.

Yellow.

Minji’s MR2 booms beside you, low and steady.

You glance once at her, just once, through the smoke and heat.

She’s already looking at you.

And she smiles.

Green.

The second the light turns green, you’re off.

Rubber shrieks against pavement as your tires fight for grip. The force slams you into your seat.

Minji’s MR2 launches beside you, her shift smooth, timing perfect. She’s done this a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.

She’s right there—mirror to mirror, heartbeat to heartbeat. You can feel her, even through the roar.

She's not holding back. Not tonight.

Streetlights flicker overhead, throwing shadows across the cracked asphalt.

You take the first bend a little too tight—there’s a trash bin sitting half in the road.

You overcorrect, swerve slightly, tires skimming the edge of the curb.

Don’t oversteer. She’ll never let you live it down.

Minji doesn’t flinch.

She sees your mistake and takes advantage, cutting inside and passing you cleanly.

Her MR2 hugs the turn perfectly, tires whispering instead of screaming.

Typical.

You spot an opening: a tight, flooded alley shortcut that most wouldn’t risk. You remember it from scouting earlier, but you hadn’t planned to use it. It’s too unpredictable. Still, you dive in.

Water splashes up the side of your car, and for a moment, the whole chassis shudders.

You're hydroplaning—

Breathe. Don’t panic. Catch it.

You do. Barely.

When you burst out the other side, you’re ahead.

Final lap.

Now it’s you she’s chasing.

The road curves into a long sweeping turn, then tightens into a brutal S-curve right before the finish.

You keep your line tight, eyes flicking between the mirrors and the road.

She’s gaining on you again. She knows this part too well.

She’s not even forcing her car just waiting for you to mess up again.

But then—

Halfway through the lap, right before the last turn, something goes wrong.

Minji’s car stutters.

You don’t stop. Can’t. Not now.

You tear across the finish line a second later.

You win.

The crowd erupts. Fireworks explode somewhere off in the distance, a streak of color lighting up the night sky. Your name’s being screamed, shouted, echoed all around you. Someone grabs your arm—probably Ryujin, lifting it high into the air. You barely hear them. You barely hear anything, honestly.

Minji’s out of her car by the time you circle back. She gives you a stiff nod, lips pressed thin like she’s biting something back.

“Congrats,” she says.

You want to say something—Thank you? Did I? Are you okay? Was that real?—but she’s already walking off, disappearing into the crowd before anyone can stop her.

And maybe the crowd’s still celebrating, but all you can think about is her jaw. Clenched. Her fists. Shoved too deep in her pockets. The way her eyes didn’t meet yours long enough to say what she really felt.

She’s pissed.

You know her.

All too well.

-

Later, when the chaos has faded, you find yourself steering your car toward the place you’re 99% sure she went.

An old lot, tucked behind an abandoned strip mall. No lights. No noise. Just the faint hum of a playlist she always swore helped her “focus,” even though half of it was just twice songs and alt-pop breakup songs.

Sure enough, her MR2’s there.

Hood popped. Headlights dimmed.

Minji stands with her back to you, sleeves rolled up, frowning at the mess under the hood like she’s trying to will it back to life.

You park a few spaces down and walk over.

“I thought I told you to replace the starter,” you say casually, eyeing the cables.

She jumps. Just a little.

“You stalking me now?” she says, not looking up.

“No,” you lie. “Just figured I’d find you sulking somewhere.”

“...Not sulking,” she mutters. “Just...processing.”

“Uh huh.”

You step closer. The smell of smoke and hot metal lingers in the air. You glance at the engine, then at her hands. She’s holding the wrench wrong.

You sigh. “You’re gonna strip the bolt like that.”

“I know how to fix my car,” she snaps.

You hold up your hands. “Didn’t say you didn’t. Just offering.”

She hesitates.

Then, quietly so quietly “...Fine.”

You take the wrench from her. Your fingers brush. She tenses.

And suddenly, it’s just the two of you again. Just like it used to be. Two grease-stained idiots under the hood, arguing about torque specs and spark plugs.

“Still a little dramatic,” you mutter, tightening a bolt.

“Says the girl who revved so loud the crowd thought a jet was landing.”

You glance at her sideways. “Eh. Admit it. You missed this.”

She scoffs. “You wish.”

You grin. “You let me win.”

That gets her. Her face twitches.

“No, I didn’t,” she says, but you catch it. That tiny, guilty shift in her eyes.

You step in closer, wiping your hands on your jeans.

“You knew how much I wanted that contract,” you say, voice quieter now. “It’s all I ever talked about.”

Her jaw tightens, and her eyes don't meet yours. She’s thinking—really thinking, like she always does when she doesn’t know how to feel.

You remember those late-night conversations, way before any of this. When it was just you two, talking about your futures under the glow of her dads garage lights. You used to tell her about your big dream of making it as a real racer. You said it like it was just some offhand joke, but she saw it. She always did. The way your eyes lit up when you said it. She knew.

And then, in the present, as the host’s words echoed in the back of her mind, she saw your eyes shine when they mentioned the contract. You were ready to take it, to take that chance, and she let you.

“Min,” you say, softer, “your car was fine five minutes before the race.”

She still doesn’t speak. Just looks away. Jaw tight.

Her lips tremble slightly, but she stays quiet. Always holding back. Always too in control. But not tonight.

You step in closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to see the way her fists twitch like she’s holding back from either hitting you or grabbing you.

You don’t say anything else.

You just wait.

And maybe that’s what breaks her.

Because a second later, she moves.

No warning—just a sharp inhale, and then she’s on you. Arms locking around your shoulders, body crashing into yours like she’s trying to shove all the distance out of the way. She hugs you hard. Desperate. Her breath hits your neck hot and ragged, and you feel the tension in her spine like a livewire.

Her grip’s bruising. Her nails dig into your back like she wants to hurt you for making her care this much. But you don’t let go.

You never could.

She buries her face into the curve of your neck, and the exhale she lets out sounds like a surrender as her hands slide down your sides, fingers pressing into your waist with a force that leaves no room for escape. Her lips graze your skin when she speaks, sounding shaky and too honest.

“I missed you,” she mutters, and god—it’s not fair, the way your heart jumps like you haven’t heard her lie a hundred times before.

Rivals, sure. Exes, yeah. But damn—her hands still remember the shape of your waist better than her steering wheel.

MINJI IN RED LIKE😻😻😜😜 RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

taglist: @arihiu @fruityg0rl @keiji-jin @strangercat @yjiminswallet @hazel-tanthamore22 @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @gtfoiydlyj @Mj.Db @gtfoiydlyjm @somedaydream @peranoo @syronns @angiisss @Drvirgus @aloneinacity @nnewjeansstuff @imsogay504 @sh1ba100 @tashasmywife

[tadfools]

I saw a post that was like ‘these are the cars the bg3 companions would have’ but they were all rich people shit so here’s my version just for funzies

Shadowheart has a Subaru and if you know why then you know why. There’s a moon sun catcher hanging from the review mirror and on the back there’s one of those coexist bumper stickers (it was there when she bought it but she doesn’t take it off cause it might damage the paint under it)

Karlach has her mom’s old beat up a Honda Civic. It starts rattling if it goes over 90, one of the seatbelt is being held together with duct tape, it smells like crayons, and the check engine light is always on. But good god is it going to get you where you need to go

Halsin has a jeep Liberty/Cherokee, it’s always covered in mud and it smells like a wet dog…. He doesn’t have a dog

Lae’zel has a Volkswagen bug. It’s small, dignified, economical even! (Kinda)

Wyll had a Toyota pickup from the 90’s. It’s not much but it was the first car he bought that wasn’t with his dad’s money, he loves it like a son. It’s name is Alberto

Rich kid Gale would drive a 68 mustang if he ever left the house. I love the man but he would be one of those people who has a fancy car just to say he has a fancy car and doesn’t have the first clue on how to take care of it

Jaheria has half a dozen kids at any given moment and has a minivan. Yes, she does have one of those stick figure family window decals. There’s a soccer ball sized dent on the passenger door

Minsc has a mini cooper. A mini cooper that has more scratches and dings than it should but a mini cooper nonetheless. It got left in the sun way too long and has one of those fading spots on the roof.

Astarion is the proud owner of a Prius. Her name is Natalie

Also Withers’ has the car from that 70’s show

[denjjisgf]

IFHY (ODE TO BOREDOM) maneater reader x unsuspecting s. gojo

cw: light smut, delusional reader, stalking, mentions of killing because reader is a serial killer pt 1 here

now to be clear, it was an accident.

never in your killing career have you been so sloppy. i mean, come on, snooping is one thing, but to take something! you've never stolen, and trophies aren't your thing. they were a trail of evidence and besides, for the new year you made a resolution to keep the trinkets to a minimum.

burning with shame and still flushed from seeing satoru, you fanned yourself, admiring the printed crumbling decal. loose threads frayed around the cuffs and there was paint stains littering the fabric. it was something satoru so clearly loved. guilt pits in your stomach on the walk back to your car. it was a few blocks away so you have quite a bit of time to ruminate.

what the fuck was going on with you?!

this took time. he took all of your time. everything you had worked for to build up to the moment you would kill for. no pun intended. it was all going down the drain as you walked farther from his apartment.

you had spent weeks following him home, and back to work (he is quite the workaholic, a problem you anticipate he won't have soon). you got a membership at his gym and shut down randoms and free drinks at the clubs he frequents, waiting for the perfect moment. even if you weren't there for him, you of all people know not to accept drinks from strangers- you never know what's in them.

jesus fuck, you spent an embarrassing amount of time memorizing the faces of his friends from facebook posts. that's why you let it slide when satoru- drunk and stupid- tumbled into the backseat of the cab last saturday with that woman.

geto, you seethed, balling your fist till crescents formed deep in the skin. you knew he was bad news the second you saw him: arm stretched over satoru's shoulders, low-lidded glossy eyes exposing his late night festivities at the "gojo & friend's" favorite night club. as you learned while rummaging through his kitchen cabinets, satoru doesn't drink alcohol. there wasn't a single drop of liquor around his home. not even a bottle opener.

so you knew it was that long-haired freak who made your sweet satoru drink himself to oblivion, leaving you at the bar, watching him hand-in-hand with some bimbo, and you, furious, tingling for a fresh kill.

in minutes, your tongue was down the throat of a bleary eyed girl with puffy lips and a full moon face in attempt to forget. she melted in your hands without fear. you couldn't wait see the trust fall from her face when you sunk your knife in her chest. he just made you so mad. how were you to get rid of that frustration?

you were guiding her out the doors, taking her home to finish the job, when you caught your silver fox hanging out a taxi's window, waving goodbye to geto on the curb. the car took off and you locked eyes for fleeting second with geto. if looks could kill, he would've been flattened by a falling ac unit, bloody bits scattered on the cement, perfect for stepping on.

the girl tugged on your hand, thighs squirming in her tight mini skirt. goosebumps freckled on her skin and you huffed, annoyed.

"i'm not interested anymore," her smile formed into a frown.

"w-wait, whaddya talkin' about?" it wasn't the same as feeling a pulse slow to null, but her minor heartbreak would suffice till you had satoru pleading for his life.

"listenn, how clearer can i be? fuck. off." with that, you ditched her in the cold and took off for the night. you felt the bloodlust wavering and slowing in your veins.

why you decided in the moment to leave blood-free and frustrated as hell, no one knows. but since you set your eyes on satoru, you had been clouded with brain fog. practice makes perfect, and by this point, you were the fucking master.

you tug on your hair, wiping your nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. he smelled so much better than you had imagined and it calmed you.

you decided the next day would be the best time to sneak the beloved staple back into his apartment. he'd be gone, out till near dawn on a friday night- the weather was going to be frigid, but as they say, a hoe never gets cold.

so when tomorrow rolls around, you camp outside the building. and at 11, a cab sputtered exhaust out front, the engine stirring as it waited for satoru. the "occupied" light flicked on and once the car was out of sight, you made your way inside.

even though you had only been inside the complex once, you knew how to get to his unit exactly. building blueprints weren't public information, but boring nights outside left your counting windows and let's just say you did the math.

letting yourself in, you move quickly, leaving the sweatshirt at the bottom of his hamper. you smell his pillow and toy with the neatly lined up sunglasses on his dresser, but you make sure you're out the door in minutes. you took the stairs two at a time, running from the inkling feeling you were being watched. or perhaps, about to be caught.

you rush out the stairwell exit, "shit, my ba-"

you freeze. god, you were so careless, throwing your body into the heavy metal door and right into satoru's back like that. and why the fuck was he back?!

in slow motion, he turned and chuckled, arrogantly, as he one-uped you. he's smiling like he enjoys what he sees. your heart races, panicking because you never let victims see your face, nevermind the warmth pooling in your cheeks and core.

"in a rush, beautiful? you're welcome to share a cab with me, it's just outside."

"uhm, no. i mean, i'm good. my car's parked outside."

"are you new to the building?"

"what?"

"well, you can only park outside if you live here or are fucking someone who lives here. weird property policy, huh?" he smiles coyly, and you roll your eyes. get a load of this guy.

"no, i don't live here."

"it'd be a shame if your car was towed," he glances at his thousand dollar watch. "and it's just about time those pesky trucks go on duty. how 'bout this, i give you my guest pass and you stay the night with me."

"look, i wasn't here long, my car is fine. i was just dropping something off for someone."

"fiesty," he says with a bite. he leans comfortably against the mailboxes, lanky legs crossing at the ankle. you learn a new thing about him everyday: being a nuisance is clearly his flirting style.

"ah- so who's the special little man? i should've known a girl like you'd be taken goods," he tosses a hand over his brows with a "woe-is-me" attitude, peeking an eye out to see if you were still entertaining him.

"you could call him that. he doesn't know but he's not gonna be seeing anyone new, anytime soon."

"wow, it's that serious?"

"you don't even know."

here you go :) @megumisthirdog

[smoketransformer]

A Life on the Road

Harry Hamner had a lot going for him, but it wasn’t enough. After recently being accepted to a very prestigious medical school, he started having doubts. Was the life of a doctor, just like his parents, one that he really wanted?

Harry had always fantasized a life as a truck driver. He would be able to travel the country without a care in the world. Sure, sitting all day probably wasn’t the healthiest - but he didn’t care. He wanted to live his life the way he wanted it and he could do that on the road.

One morning, Harry woke up to the sound of a loud horn. At first, he tried to ignore it but it was consistent and close. Harry got up from his bed and looked out the window. He saw a massive semi truck parked in the driveway. There was no trailer on it, but it still looked huge.

Confused, he quickly threw on a flannel and jeans and went outside to check it out and look for the owner.

He approached the truck and didn’t see the driver. The truck was beautiful. He was painted black, but had streaks that looked like wisps of smoke around. There was a decal on the the driver side door that read “Big Ol’ Smoke Trucking Co.”

He opened the door and a thought - no, an urge - came across him. He should sit in the driver seat, just for a minute, to see how it was sitting behind the wheel. He always wanted this opportunity.

Harry climbed up and sat in the seat. It was both new and familiar. It was where he belonged. The keys were in the ignition. He wanted to hear the engine roar, so he turned them. The engine came to life with such power.

Without even thinking, Harry shifted the truck into reverse and pulled out of the driveway. He was a natural, as if he was driving large rigs for most of his life.

He shifted it into drive and drove down the road. He didn’t know where he was going, but he drove like he did.

It felt like he was driving for just a few minutes, but it actually was for hours. He turned the radio on to the old country music station; he usually liked current pop, but this just fit the mood.

He made it out of the city and was driving past acres of crops. He was driving the speed limit, but noticed some flashing blue and red lights behind him.

“Shit,” he said to himself. The truck was probably reported as stolen and this dream would end for him. He pulled over and stopped the truck. The sheriff car behind him parked behind him.

The sheriff approached the cab. He was wearing a large hat and dark aviator glass. He sported a very thick, black mustache and had a large billiard pipe sticking out of his mouth.

“Is there a problem, sheriff?” Harry sheepishly asked.

“Reports of a missing truck. One like this,” the deep voice of the sheriff replied, “License and registration.”

Harry tried to act casual by reaching over to the glove box on the passenger side. He opened it up and noticed a light brown pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He pulled it out.

“Pipe smoker as well?” the sheriff asked, with his pipe still clinched in his teeth.

“Ummm…yeah,” Harry lied, thinking maybe the sheriff would let him off easy as a fellow pipe smoker. He set the pipe and pouch on the passenger seat and grabbed the license with registration.

“Not many of us around anymore, real smokin’ men,” the sheriff added as Harry handed him the paperwork. Harry didn’t know what was on it, but was hoping it would pass.

The sheriff looked at it, still smoking his pipe. The smoke smelled nice, Harry thought. To sell the lie that he was also a pipe smoker, he grabbed the pipe. He noticed it was already packed with tobacco and placed it in his mouth. He wasn’t going to light it though, but thought this was enough pass as a smoker.

“Got turned around, I think,” Harry said between the pipe in his teeth, “This was to Duvall, right?”

“Sure is,” the sheriff confirmed, “Picking up a load there?”

“Sure am,” Harry answered.

“More than a day’s drive though. There is a truck stop on the way though. Sure you’ll find it,” the sheriff added as he handed the paperwork back, “Everything checks out, Harold. You can go on your way. Have a nice day.”

Harold? Nobody ever calls him by his birth name, not even his parents. How did the sheriff know his name?

“Umm, yeah. You too, Sheriff,” Harry said as the sheriff walked off and he was looking at the paperwork.

His license had his birth name: “Harold Hamner” and birthday: “September 23”; but that was the only thing correct. It said the year he was born was 1963, making him 60 years old. His weight was also at 285 pounds, when he was actually 160. His photo was also not of him, but of a heavy old man with a balding head and large grey mustache. How did this pass the sheriff’s inspection? But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it did pass.

The sheriff drove past him as he started the truck back up. Harry continued down the road, without realizing the pipe was still in his mouth.

He continued down the road and onward to the town of Duvall. He started singing along to the radio with the pipe still in his mouth. It was the first time hearing most of these old country songs, but he somehow knew every word. He had almost forgotten that the load he had to pick up in the town was a made up story, but he still was heading there.

Harry was enjoying every minute of his journey. He was so much that he didn’t notice he started puffing away at the pipe in his jaw. He didn’t recall lighting it, but it somehow was starting to release smoke.

Harry thought the smoke tasted nice and smelled wonderful. He could get use to this. He even started inhaling a bit. It wasn’t harsh on his lungs; in fact, it was soothing and relaxing.

Harry was so in tuned to this way of life, he didn’t notice that he was building some fat on him. It was as if he had been sitting in the driver seat everyday for the past several years, eating only the greasiest of diner food. His hair was also thinning and he sprouted a short mustache. The cab of the truck was starting to get hazy from his constant pipe smoking.

He probably didn’t notice these changes because thoughts of him doing this for the past 10 years flooded his mind. To him, this was just who he was and has been.

Another 10 miles went by and another 10 years gone in Harry’s mind. Harry was stuck in thought as he puffed on his pipe. He couldn’t believe that he had been driving this truck for 20 years. He loved his career as a truck driver. He could smoke all day, sit on his fat ass, snack all he wanted and enjoy the views.

Harry’s hair had started falling out only on the top of his head and his clothes were getting tight. His fatty double chin was protruding and scrunched against his shirt. His mustache now bushier and smelling of tobacco smoke.

It was starting to get dark as Harry was pulling into the truck stop. An old man like himself had to get some rest before his next day of driving. After driving for 40 years, he knew it was best to take breaks in the evening.

He parked and pulled off his flannel since it was just way too tight on him. Luckily he had a large tank top behind his seat that he put on. His skin was wrinkly and his hair was grey, almost white. The only bit of color was yellow nicotine stain in his mustache since his pipe never left his mouth.

He struggled to get out of his seat due to his size. He waddled to the truck stop bathroom, leaving a trail of smoke, when he noticed the sheriff.

The sheriff’s car was parked and the owner was leaning against the side, with his arms crossed, dark sunglasses hiding most of his face and pipe clenched tightly in his saw.

Smoke poured from the sheriff’s mouth when he said, “Glad you found your way, Harold.”

Harold’s voice, deepened by his age and years of smoking, replied “Me too, Sheriff. Me too.”

[strwbrychffoncke]

"walking in a winter wonderland,, 3.1k words synopsis: an evening date w doctor zayne leads to a stroll through the winter snowfall of linkon contains: zayne x reader (afab reader in mind but theres close to no phys desc tbh) ,fluff fluff fluff fluff fluffff ,petnames (reader is called 'miss hunter' twice) ,playful bantering ,(attempts at) zayne dry humor ,keeping zaynes sweet tooth in check ,cute stroll in the snow ,looots of hand holding ,snowman moment ,kisses ,suggestive ending ,that's all i can think of rn :x note: i meant to release this like last wk but the writing was not writing.... i literally had to stop myself from writing for raf or greyson instead bc i said id release zayne help.. this is like an accumulation of five diff drafts into one so i hope it came out well?? please enjoy....

quiet.

it's quiet in the early evening when you step out of your apartment, sighting zayne's car parked right out front, said man promptly exiting the drivers side in favor of making his way to the passenger door as you walk the short path towards him.

he's clad in casual slacks, a turtleneck sweater and his dark trench coat, offering a small smile as you close the short distance before opening the car door for you.

"are you my driver for tonight?"

his eyes glint with playfulness.

"ive come to retrieve a miss hunter for the night. might that be you?"

you giggle.

"my chauffeur bares a striking resemblance to a certain renowned doctor zayne." you take a step closer. "do you know him?" you tilt your head in question, a questioning look adorning your face.

he takes your hand in his.

"i have no idea who you're talking about."

you feign a pout.

"well, i happen to be quite close with him."

"is that so?"

"yeah," you nod, looking off to the side, bringing your pointer finger to the corner of your lips before continuing.

"—so, im not so sure he would appreciate a stranger holding my hand..." you trail off, slowly beginning to slip your trapped hand out of his grasp, only for him to tighten his hold.

"well..."

he pulls it up to his lips.

"i'm zayne. it's a good thing that i'm no stranger" he emphasizes the last word, planting a soft kiss on the back of your hand, gaze holding yours while he does so.

you laugh again, heart full at the gesture.

a small smile pulls at his lips again at the sound before he helps you inside the car (not that you really need it, but as a gesture of his love for you, you allow him to treat you like a princess).

once he's situated back in the drivers side beginning to take off, you prompt him.

"so, where are we headed this evening, doctor?"

"that, is a secret" he answers simply.

you put on a thoughtful expression.

"hmm... are you sure you're not kidnapping me?"

a playful smirk ghosts his lips.

"it seems you've found yourself in quite the predicament haven't you, miss hunter?"

before you can respond, he reaches for your hand again, gripping it firmly.

"how will you escape?"

you hum in thought for a moment before turning your head to fully look at him.

"i'm not so sure that i want to."

the car stops at a red light, and he takes the opportunity to meet your gaze.

"good," his smirk fully stretches across his face now. "i wasn't planning on letting you go anyway."

-

the place in question turned out to be your favorite restaurant.

given the season, both the interior and exterior were decorated with colorful festive lights with cute winter themed decals hanging on the long windows.

(when you pointed out a cute snowman and asked zayne why they had a decal of him, he shot back that despite how it looked, you were as cold to the touch as a snowman before wrapping his scarf around you).

for the time, the restaurant was surprisingly not too busy, granting a cozy atmosphere in the dim lights, a pretty candle lighting up your table for two with small decorations of snow-covered trees in the center.

after pleasant conversation, hushed laughs and plenty of playful bantering over dinner, you advised against zayne ordering any dessert in favor of checking out a new cafe that had recently opened nearby.

(and that just so happened to be a source of both you and zayne's curiosity, but you each unknowingly refrained from visiting on your own in favor of trying it for the first time together).

at the sound of dessert, zayne was quick to pay for the meal (shutting down any argument you may have had at splitting the bill with a simple "nonsense" as he handed his card to the waitress) before ushering you out in what appeared to be haste but you knew was excitement, grasping your hand and walking the short distance through the cold towards the cafe.

-

the little jingle of the bell above the door is light as zayne opens it for you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you in first before following close behind you.

you're welcomed by the cheery voice of the cashier before you both take a look around.

upon entry, there's small shelves to the right of the entrance featuring different types of freshly baked and individually wrapped breads, more shelves against the rightmost wall that feature things from cookies to tarts to even small cakes in a cooler right beside them, and small counters in the center of the floor with featured seasonal items that are cutely displayed around a small christmas tree. to the left of the place is a small seating area, and straight ahead is a large hanging menu behind the cashier with drink options, among other made-to-order desserts.

there don't seem to be many customers at this hour aside from you and zayne, a couple of guests enjoying their desserts at the seating area and one browsing the options. the atmosphere is homey and welcoming, the scents of everything making the place smell absolutely divine.

after taking everything in, you and zayne begin browsing around at the various options displayed, taking a look at what they have and coming up with ideas of what you'd like to get.

as you slowly eye each shelf, carefully surveying every option, you try your best to settle on only two things while simultaneously trying to rationalize buying more because they look too good, there's no way you won't eat them all!

wanting a momentary respite from your inner turmoil, you take a peek at zayne only to let out an amused laugh at his troubled expression, already knowing the inward struggle he must be facing.

even so, you walk up to him, a teasing smile painting your lips.

"have you decided what you'll be getting, doctor?"

he doesn't answer right away, standing at a spot close by the register as he stares between the rows of displayed strawberry desserts, eyes deeply concentrated, a loosely clenched hand held up just under his lips in thought.

"hmm..."

you take a step closer to the display case, one of the various cakes catching your attention.

"oooh, that one looks sooo good!"

zayne looks up at the cashier behind the counter.

"how much for one of everything?"

the cashier visibly startles at the inquiry.

"sorry?"

"zayne!"

at the sound of his name, he looks down at you.

"is something the matter?"

"you are not buying one of everything."

the way his expression morphs from serious to genuinely perplexed is so comical you almost let a laugh slip through your pointed façade.

"why not?" the tone of his voice comes out almost sad.

"because," you take a step closer to him this time. "that's way too much sugar for just one person!"

"the last time i checked, i didn't come into this building alone, did i?"

"that's-"

the cashier, a witness to the bantering, smiles to herself before deciding to speak up again.

"please let me know if you need any help!"

suddenly remembering the audience of one, you feel embarrassed, giving a short nod and a sheepish "thank you" before she goes to check on nearby displays, removing some or rearranging other various sweets.

zayne's attention is still on you.

"well?"

you blink.

"what?"

"surely the both of us can-"

"zayne, i am not letting you buy one of every dessert in here."

the rest of his words die on his lips, and he frowns.

"have it your way."

knowing he would deny it to all hell, you decide against pointing out the very dejected pout he wears in response to your declaration as he goes back to browsing the shelves, the serious look in his eyes returning as he internally struggles to narrow down what he'd like.

. . .

in the end, you settled on the idea of each buying three desserts you wanted to try the most (since their opening special of buy two get one free was active) and sharing them with each other so that you could both have a taste of more items.

(despite this, zayne still picked a total of six items, claiming that the prices were quite exceptional, and that it was "okay to indulge every once in awhile." before you could protest, he had already paid and made his way to a nearby table, wordlessly expecting you to follow).

and though you didn't want to feed into his satisfaction, you had to agree that the amount of desserts he had picked was justified as those turned out to be your favorites (and he quickly finished his other options, only after allowing you a taste first).

. . .

by the time you both exited the bakery, you're met with the sight of snow, ground crunching beneath you as the delicate snowflakes continue their pleasant descent before piling onto the ground.

your eyes are wide, excitement glimmering within them, even when the cold flakes sprinkling over you draw out a shiver from you.

"look zayne, it's snowing!"

"indeed."

his lips curl up, but he's not looking at the snow.

instead, he's gazing at you, a fond adoration in his eyes as he stares at your expression.

you are so precious to him.

before he can suggest getting you out of the cold, you grab his hand, gazing at him.

"let's walk around!"

"and let you catch a cold?" he raises an eyebrow.

you playfully scoff.

"i'll have you know, my immune system is amazing!" you defend.

he offers an unimpressed look.

"i suppose that explains why i had to nurse you back to health the last time you were out in the cold, then?"

"come on, please??? just for a little bit!"

when you beg like that, looking the way that you do, he feels himself weaken.

he never had any intention of denying you of your wishes, anyway.

"alright." he nods.

you let out a small cheer in triumph.

"but..."

he removes a pair of mittens from his coat pocket, handing one of them to you.

"since someone didn't think to bring their own."

you pout but take it from him.

"yeah? and what about my other hand??" you tease, slipping the oversized glove on one hand before holding your other one up and wriggling your fingers to emphasize your point.

wordlessly, he takes a hold of it, pausing your movements in the process as he pulls it towards his lips to blow warm air onto it, never breaking eye contact with you.

"i'll just have to ensure you stay warm another way. "

he lowers your hand still in his, properly intertwining his fingers with yours.

his voice lowers.

"dont let go."

then he leans close to your ear, whispering.

"doctor's orders."

his voice comes out in a deep rumble, almost commanding, your heart fluttering helplessly at the tone.

feeling shy, you aren't given a chance to respond before he begins leading you down the sidewalk, taking in the scenery of the decorative lights encasing almost every nearby building or tree, casting a light glow over the ever falling snow.

though for awhile, your attention is more focused on your intertwined hands and zayne's handsome face than the scenery before you both.

-

eventually reaching an open area, you quickly take note of the amount of snow piled on the ground, breaking away from zayne's hold, telling him that "a snowman is just asking to be created here!"

he watches in amusement as you scurry around, rolling the snow into three big balls before piling them onto each other and then searching for anything that can be used to create a face.

after several minutes, you take a couple of steps back, excitedly revealing the finished product to zayne.

"ta-da!"

he stares at the snowman who seems to be staring right back at him.

"pfft.... zayne-"

"is that... supposed to be me?"

the snowman in question resembles the various snowmen plushies you have piled at home who, you've joked, resemble zayne quite well, and "are so warm and cozy to cuddle when you're away on business or have a late shift at the hospital, you know!" according to you.

except, for this particular snowman, you've wrapped a scarf around its neck— the same scarf zayne wrapped around yours earlier— granting it his style as well.

zayne lets out a sigh before walking up to the snowman, reaching out to grab the scarf before you stop him.

"wait! a picture- i have to take a picture first!"

you fish into your pocket with your ungloved, trembling hand (almost numb from the cold and playing in the snow) as zayne pauses, turning to you and watching you struggle with a deadpan expression.

"if we stay out here any longer, your hand might end up falling off."

you manage to pull your phone out, opening it to the camera app.

"good thing i have a surgeon who can easily reattach it for me~!"

he sighs again.

"take it quickly."

you face the camera to zayne and the snowman, taking a photo of them side-by-side before stepping closer and taking one of all three of you, posing cutely while zayne stares unamused the entire time.

"ok, got it! lets go now-"

as you lower your arm, your phone slips from your shivering grasp and into the plush snow below.

before you can go to retrieve it, zayne leans down, plucking it out, wiping it with his coat before placing it back into your pocket for you.

"thank you," you breathe out, a grateful smile stretching across your lips.

he suddenly leans closer to you, causing your breath to hitch.

"you've got snow..."

his hand reaches up, brushing snow from the top of your head.

he moves his hand down the side of your face, lingering there for a moment before cupping your cheek.

"zayne?"

even when you're freezing like this, you look ethereal under the snowflakes that continue to dance around you, hair a little messy from the chilly wind, eyes shining from the decorative lights nearby, parted lips slightly chapped from the cold and breaths visible thanks to the chill.

he suddenly leans forward, lips easily melding with yours.

words are never needed when everything zayne wishes to say is relayed in his kiss: deep in the way that he loves you, sweet from the desserts you'd shared, loving in his loyalty to you, passionate in that you were his, and he was yours.

in this moment, under the glittered night sky, snowflakes catching in your hair and clothes, surrounded by the soft lights of the festive city, you and zayne seemed to be lost in your own personal winter wonderland reserved for two.

he breaks the kiss shortly, grasping your cold hand in his once more.

"you've had your fun. let's get you someplace warm."

you blink up at him, speechless from the kiss and offering a nod instead, allowing him to quickly lead you back to the car.

he situates you in first before slipping into the drivers seat, quickly turning on the car and clicking the heater on. while it slowly starts up, he retrieves his scarf from his coat (that you didn't see him nab from his snowman-self) and wraps it around your hands.

"to warm them up quicker," he reasons.

"oh? are you sure this isn't your way of restraining me from escaping back into the snow?"

he puts the car in drive before he goes to respond.

"if i had been concerned about that, i assure you i would have tied your hands securely."

wanting to push him some more, you wriggle a hand out from the scarf.

"it appears im free~ what will you do if i try to escape?"

in a single motion, your hand is enveloped by his, holding it down against the small glove box between your seats.

"this."

you wriggle your fingers playfully as you feign trying to escape, only causing his grip to tighten slightly.

"stay still," he speaks softly, yet again in that commanding voice that urges you to comply.

"or are you that eager to learn how surgeons tie knots?"

-

when you both return home (to zaynes place, under his insistence that it was closer, and you loved any excuse to spend more time with him), zayne almost immediately goes to start the flames of the fireplace after shedding you both of your snow covered coats, leading you to sit comfortably in front of it first.

"feel better?"

"yes," you sigh in relief, hands held out towards the flames. "i didn't realize how cold i really was!"

"well, i imagine standing out in the cold and playing in the snow will do that to you. "

you huff out a breath at his response, laying down on the fluffy carpet, peering at him upside-down.

"there's nothing wrong with having a little fun," you refute.

looking at you splayed out in his home like this— light of the dancing flames setting a pretty glow along your figure, hair spread out under you, expression playful from your remark yet satisfied from the warmth, shirt riding up slightly to reveal some of your midriff— along with all of the teasing remarks tonight finally catches up with him, his demeanor changing into something a little darker as he closes the distance, taking the spot beside you.

"but there is something wrong with disobedience."

"huh?" you blink at the man now beside you in question.

"zayne, what-"

he grabs your hand (still held out towards the flames), pinning it down and shifting himself so he's half hovering over you.

"well, when a patient doesn't follow doctors orders, they'll have to pay the price."

you feel your face heating up from the growing tension.

"what are you-"

he squeezes the hand he's holding down.

"you let go of my hand earlier."

"that's-"

your eyes widen in realization.

he suddenly leans down, planting a kiss right atop your pulse point, causing the rest of your words to die on your lips.

"it seems i have to discipline a certain naughty patient who has a streak of disobeying professional orders."

he crashes his lips onto yours in a hungry kiss that you can't help but to completely submit to.

and true to his word, the fireplace was not the only thing warming your bodies in the face of the worsening blizzard outside, breaths mingling with one another in the comfort of the living room, both escaping to your own world for two, pleasure overflowing between the both of you.

after all, the doctor couldn't have you getting sick on his watch, could he?

-

a/n: this took way longer than i thought but once i got the sequence of events in order it slowly started to come together.... js yday the draft was at 1.3k words now the number is flipped.... i love my doctor zayne what can i say :x

*mostly edited but i edit late at night so ill check over for any errors again later*

i could not for the life of me figure out the "proper" word for the storage box between the front seats of a car so its called a glove box pls spare me....

[ronearoundblindly]

Hideout (2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sweet Baby (see previous or series)

Summary: 'Grant' becomes comfortable enough to tell you who he is, and you get comfortable enough to show him the kindness he deserves.

Warnings for description of minor blood/injury and light smut (mentions of morning wood, dry humping, hair pulling, praise kink? maybe coached orgasm?). This series is 18+ only. MINORS DNI. There is plenty else for you youngins to read on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 2.6k

Warmer months are for updating the rooms, so they are on a rotation of renovation. There are really busy times and really slow times based on events in town, but there’s an understanding with Grant’s ‘party’ of friends that, if needed, they can stay in the room closed for repair. It’s not as if any room is uninhabitable when they need a coat of paint and some plumbing tune-ups.

Clark doesn’t remember you told him about this—you used the excuse that Grant ’s company are handymen (and women) who come in between other jobs,—so the front desk kid calls you while you’re out running errands one day.

Two ‘dudes’ want to stay in room eight on the end. So? Let them. Those are the people who fix things. Clark just says “kay.”

When you pull into the lot hours later, you don’t expect to find Grant sitting on the curb, filthy and exhausted in some gym clothes, a plastic bag set at his feet.

“Wha’ch’a waiting for?” you call with the window down, hoping his spirits can lift easily.

Grant peers up at you through long lashes. He’s had a knock-down drag-out with a field of bramble…or something. That’s when you notice dark, dried blood in the grime stuck to him, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Sa—Tom used all the hot water,” he huffs, “so I’m biding my time.”

Their room’s water tank, the one due for maintenance, is going to take an eternity to reheat, and it’s the worst luck that there really are no other rooms available.

“Hop on in. You can use the bath up at the house.”

He looks just as startled as you by the invitation, but in no simple terms can you express how bad it is to have a huge guy covered in blood hanging out in front of your rural motel. That’s horror movie bait.

You know Grant. You trust him. All he needs is to clean himself up.

He checks behind him again. The same mix of seeking approval or seeking the cover of ignorance returns to his pretty features, and he trots over to the passenger seat of the car, plastic bag in hand.

He helps you bring in the groceries and supplies from town even though you point him in the direction of the upstairs bathroom immediately. There’s a big jacuzzi tub in there, and he is welcome to soak for however long he wants. You’ll even wash his clothes in the mean time, if he’d like.

Grant seems hesitant to accept or argue.

You press on.

Showing him where everything is in the bathroom takes a minute. You fish around a cupboard for the muscle-relaxing milk additive, explaining it may help him…if needed. You don’t know what’s happened, so you’re flying blind for options.

When the tap turns off ten minutes later, silence descends, but he never handed you stuff to wash. You knock and try the door, just to crack it open so he can hear you.

First, you notice the color of the water. He used the milk bath alright, but whatever washed immediately off him has saturated and soured the clean white into a rusty tan. Second, you pick up the pile of clothes and find more in the plastic bag, except…it’s a suit with a star decal half-ripped and dangling from the chest. Third, you realize you can’t see him in the water at all, not his feet, not his head, no bubbles, so you rush in and shove your hands beneath the surface.

He shoots up in alarm, gasping and sloshing to a different wide, rounded corner of porcelain.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you shriek, hands out and spread wide. “I just thought—I don’t know—I didn’t know if you’d—sorry!”

He rubs his hands down his face and over his dripping hair. He doesn’t even speak; he just waves for you to stop apologizing and clears water shot up his nose.

You have to collapse to the fuzzy rug and hold your heart before it beats right out of your ribcage. You still repeat “sorry” a few more times and then manage an impressed “wow, you kept all the water in.”

He thunks his head back to the lip of the tub and props up one leg, his knee cresting the surface. “I have a talent…”

The dirt, despite how much clearly came off already, is smeared grossly across him.

He looks so tired.

“May I—“ you grab the shampoo bottle all the way at his feet “—help?”

Defeated in more ways than one, he nods through the same concerned and confused gaze that’s become his signature. He maneuvers nearer you while you carefully wet your hands, starting a lather. His head stays down, spine exposed, as you massage at the base of his skull.

His eyes shut.

Your heart now swells with accomplishment; you gave this man a moment of peace.

Fingers gliding over the sinewy, tight bands beneath soft hairs, you press circles around and around his scalp. He cranes backwards while you move up and over the crown of his head, and by just above his ears, he’s laying his full weight in the water, lax against the rim.

You keep going long after his hair is strictly clean, though you’ll recommend he rinse after soaking because the water is too foul to count on.

He remains quiet, so you dip your hands in the water at his shoulders, shake them about, and move on to scrubbing his face clean, too, working down from the hairline and over his beard.

Somewhere around his throat, the man sniffs.

He sniffs again, raising a hand from the water to stop yours.

“My name isn’t…” His eyes open finally, only to stare blankly at the ceiling. “My name is Steve.”

“Okay,” you say, abandoning the washing to sit back on the mat again. “Do you want me to call you that or Grant?”

He turns, brows furrowed, and in the most authoritative voice, he replies, “you can’t tell anyone.”

You rest your chin on the lip of the tub, too. “I know. I won’t.”

Eyes locked, you two stare at each other for a long beat.

“The Captain America suit kinda gave it away though,” you whisper, and to your surprise and delight, Steve flicks water at you in retaliation.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “handle yourself in here while I go start the laundry.”

You stretch and almost—almost—kiss his forehead because, for whatever reason, that feels right, but at the last second you tuck your head down, acting like you were just standing up. You can’t bring yourself to look back at him while gathering the clothes.

You keep busy downstairs, scrubbing at a few spots of caked on muck, trying not to listen to the sounds of splashing, the squeaking as he moves around, the rush of the draining bath, and the tap turning back on to rinse him again. You scramble to find the biggest t-shirt and pair of pants you own (although, come to think of it, Steve’s got fairly small hips, so you grab some stretchy sweats) and hand them through the door when realizing he has nothing else to wear.

He emerges with several visible cuts and scrapes but dismisses your offer to treat them.

“It’s not worth the effort. They’ll be gone by morning.”

You’ve decided something: if he doesn’t bring it up, you won’t either.

Whatever he wants to tell you, whenever he wants to tell it, you don’t ask. You are used to keeping guests’ confidence—not that anyone tells you deep, dark secrets, but you refuse to gossip about cleanliness or things in the trash—and ‘Grant’ will be no different.

You can, however, still tease him.

“Ready to share that queen bed with Tom?” You give his beefy arm a playful punch.

Steve groans.

“Kidding,” you beam. “I’m not making you walk that path in the dark right now. An elk could get ya!”

He pinches tired eyes, a ghost of a smirk realigning the hairs of his beard. You imagine that on any other day, he would put up more of a fight, but he’s fought enough.

“Yeah, okay. As long as I won’t scare the daylights out of your parents by being on the couch in the morning.” Steve steps over to the landing at the top of the stairs.

“They’re at a hospitality conference. I run the place…mostly. Besides, what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer you a bed that fits you?” You dramatically bow and indicate your room. “This way, please, sir.”

Good thing he has no fight left in him. His eyes narrow adorably, but he doesn’t budge.

“I should let Tom know.”

“There is a phone in there, too. I’ll dial room eight.”

You get him some water, hanging his clothes to dry, offering as much privacy as you can in an old house with thin walls.

“Yeah, hi, it’s…yes, yes, I’m… Yeah, I know. I know, Sam, just—you don’t have to laugh about it. She let me use the bath, is all. You’re the one who—Well, don’t take all the damn wa—hello? Hello?” Steve is staring at the receiver of the land line when you appear in the doorway. “Uh, he…gets it.”

He sits on the edge of your bed, glancing around your neither childish nor sterile room. You put the glass down on your side table instead of handing it to him.

“Okay, I think you need rest,” you add, sweeping your hand down his bare arm.

You marvel at how the edges of his cuts are already shrinking, knitting back together in near-realtime. Your fingertips trace around the skin like an interactive roadmap.

First heal this, then he needs this, and this is deeper here.

You wonder whether he feels pain the same as everyone else. Is it dulled? Does he just have to ignore how much and how frequently he hurts because it goes away sooner? That’s a sad thought to you. Just because he’ll be okay, doesn’t mean he should suffer more.

He’s a miracle. As Grant, Steve, Cap, or nobody at all, he’s still a miracle.

“You don’t have to go…”

The last of the evening blurs as you wake, but you remember Steve needed this. He asked you to stay.

Spooning is the only way to fit on the bed together. After finishing your own bedtime routing, you began behind the giant man, curled tight, lightly scratching over his broad shoulders and arms. He fell asleep so quickly, and you don’t recall how long after that you both turned over. You had to drape Steve’s awkward arm around you, show him he could hold you close, assure him he can be as comfortable as he likes.

Whichever way he settled is infinitely better than falling off the bed, and you’re grateful he’s accommodating in a small space. You suppose he has to be. Though, for a man as dense as a brick wall, he is shockingly pliant around you. 

Shame you have to stretch, ruining the picture of fitting puzzle pieces you’ve become.

Arms out and legs long, you roll, restless on the one side for too long in the night. Steve shifts around your moves, laying his head on your arm instead of the pillow. His arm that was your pillow wedges down by your waist instead.

Your knees knock his, so even in sleep, he lets them slot through, legs entangled and…his erection laying over your thigh, the tip poking your hip.

Your body tenses for a split second, the muscles of your leg brush harder against his cock, and Steve groans softly, the arm draped over you pulling your body closer.

He’s still asleep, breathing easy, his features totally relaxed.

His golden hair shines in the early light, and he’s so, so beautiful.

You move stray locks from his face, enjoying how he nuzzles and sighs as you play. Quiet, lazy touches.

His hips nudge forward for friction. His fingers grab at your nightshirt. One of his shifts angles his length to drive against your mound instead, and you gasp involuntarily, having smothered your excitement for too long.

He stirs, a heavier, longer breath followed by Steve's whole body going rigid and his eyes squeezing shut. He tries to bury his face in your arm, and you can’t help it. You hope he’ll continue.

You shush him, carding through his hair to soothe him as you did in the bath.

There’s nothing wrong.

He can feel good.

He should feel good.

You want him to feel good. Hell, you don’t say it, but you need to make him feel good.

Steve still won’t face you. He leans closer, shielding himself with your chest, but he doesn’t pull his hips away.

You can hear him thinking through his options groggily, and in your nervousness, you pull at the fistful of hair in your hand.

Steve whimpers and juts his pelvis forward.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Did you like that? Does that feel nice, Stevie?”

His abs flutter with a spasming exhale, but he says nothing. His rough hands dig into your back while he desperately seeks more friction.

You let him—you encourage him—to keep going.

“Whatever you need…it’s okay.”

He pants into your skin, making you sweat while he dissolves into a mewling mess of shame, taking what he deserves.

He bends his leg for leverage, the sole of his foot pressing flush to your calf. You feel his thumping heartbeat along all of your skin that touches his. He swallows moans which sound hollow and deep where they die in his chest before Steve grunts and stretches, the whole underbelly of his cock rubbing your inner thigh and baiting your clit mercilessly with almost-contact.

You release his hair, asking “do you want my han—”

But it’s too late.

Steve seizes you in his last moments hard before he stills, palms so wide you’ll feel the marks over an entire shoulder blade and the breadth of skin from your ass to your ribcage.

You yelp, the nails of your trapped hand clawing at the sheets around you. It’s a good pain. It’s worth it to witness how his body melts into yours after he comes. He’s lax and heavy, pathetic convulsions of ecstasy subsiding.

You’re only just starting to feel the wet fabric on your thigh when he peels away and rushes to the bathroom.

The best thing for him is to act normal. It is normal for him to be hard in the morning, to want contact and satisfaction, and the truth is it’s perfectly normal for you to dream of providing that for him. You want that contact with him. You are satisfied when he is satisfied.

That's scary because it's a secret as hidden from you both as his identity now, but you won't talk about it. If he doesn't ask, then he doesn't want the answer. It's better that way.

So that was okay, and this is okay.

It's okay, and you tell him when you bring his gym clothes back to the door. You repeat it as he walks out of your home unable to look you in the eye, his partially-destroyed past life wadded up in a fresh plastic bag.

At the bottom of the porch steps, he turns, still focused on the ground.

“Thank you for the…the bath.”

You can’t tell anyone about him—about how you feel for him—not even him. It wouldn’t be right. He doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad you feel better, Grant.”

A/N: Google, Play 'Hopelessly Devoted To You.' *starts weeping some more*

[Next Part: Sensitive Boy, Part I]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

[halcyon-autumn]

Wheel of Time Characters and the Cars They'd Drive

Written by someone who knows extremely little about cars

Rand: The poor boy buys like a standard issue sedan and then a bunch of weirdos start following him around and telling him that the car is "special." Moiraine spray paints dragon decals on his car one night while he's sleeping. People keep trying to slash his tires but he always catches them just in time. You know how it goes

Perrin: Pickup truck with normal sized wheels. Great for helping people move! Also great for running people over. Duality of man etc etc. There's always a dog in the back sticking its head out the window, but Perrin does not know this dog or where it came from

Nynaeve: She buys a used car that looks like it's falling apart and everyone tells her that she overpaid. Four months in, they realize that the last owner did a bunch of Fast and Furious style modifications and Nynaeve could probably outrace God

Mat: Bike. This SHOULD NOT WORK but somehow he's still on time to everything. This baffles everyone, including him

Egwene: Something VERY practical with great gas mileage, like a honda civic. That's the only practical car I know because it's what my dad told me to buy.

Elayne: Lexus. Mat makes fun of her for driving a luxury car and she's like "????? it's not like it's a Cadillac?"

Liandrin: A Cadillac

Moiraine: A jeep, but the nicest most upgraded version. Unless there's a car that's better for off-roading, in which case she drives that instead

Lan: A cool classic car. A car that can drift (maybe all cars can drift but Lan's definitely can). He thinks that Nynaeve's car is The Coolest for some reason

Lanfear: A horse! Just kidding. She drives a silver range rover because an article I googled said that range rovers are the king of the road.

Bonus:

Asmodean: the car type Does Not Matter all that matters is that he has a vanity license plate

[anime-kia]

Bottle Girl

Hi! I apologize for the hiatus (it feels like it's been really long). There has been a lot that has happened both in my life and things outside of it. I kind of felt inspired to write this after listening to hip hop clubbing tracks. Honestly, it's gonna be short and "typical", but hopefully still enjoyable. We all need to feel good, especially during these times. 

(So I ended up taking a break from writing this, and my life and the mood I'm feeling is kind of different so, instead of going with a generic approach, Erik is a whole cheater instead of a regular club goer... tehe.) 

Relationship: Ex-Boyfriend Erik x Bottle Girl Reader

No warnings.

You didn't imagine that this job would be so demanding, but still so rewarding at the same time. Hours on your feet in heels, holding grossly expensive bottles of alcohol in a skimpy outfit was quite the experience. It gave you opportunities to meet all kinds of celebrities, from rappers to actors or just the crowd who could afford two yachts and a private jet. Either way, those were your best tippers. Your favourite ones, in fact.

The crowd that hassled you the most were drunk men just looking to have a good time. They were extremely shameless and highly insensitive. Those were the ones that couldn't hold their liquor and became very aggressive and touchy…

Being a student in the day, you had to find a way to pay for your loans. Your long-time friend, Anthony, was the one who recommended it. He was always into the nightlife and deemed you a perfect fit. Stripping was also on the table, but you wouldn’t be able to face your parents if you did. Also, you knew some of your male family members were too familiar with the clubs around town.  

"If I were to ever see my brother, uncles or cousins while I'm dancing on stage, I think I would die." You told Anthony, and that's when he suggested bottle service. 

Tonight, your boss told you and the other ladies that there was a big crowd coming tonight. Around fifty guests who rented out one section with very popular names and titles. 

You were parked in one of the employee spaces, which was at the side of the building, so you could still see anyone who was pulling into the lot. As you applied your brown lip liner and glossy nude lip combo, around twelve fancy cars rolled into the parking lot. They all were brightly coloured, had tinted windows and loud music blasting through upgraded speakers. 

Who would be showing up today? You wondered as the boss didn't tell you anything. 

You were used to seeing fancy cars due to this club being one of the more popular and upscale ones in the city, but never an entourage like that. 

People stood outside starring as the vehicles all chose a spot to park, waiting for the guests to exit.

You found youself caught in the same gaze until three taps on your window caused you to turn around and roll down the glass. It was your favourite coworker, Nicole. She sort of reminded you of Ari, in fact they could pass for sisters. She typically had her frontal wigs done in a half-up-half-down style, but today it was long, bone-straight and burgundy with a deep side part. 

You could tell she was cold based on the goosebumps peppering her skin. The uniform, tank top with the club logo decalled in rhinestones with short shorts and fishnet stockings did absolutely nothing for warmth. The evening brought in a cold chill despite it being the middle of summer. 

She leaned over, pushing some strands behind her ear, “Hey, sis. Frédo is looking for you. He got you, Willow and me on for that big group.”

"Just three of us?” You raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah the club is supposed to be packed tonight and you already know we're his best girls.”

"You right." You put your makeup into your purse and removed the keys from the ignition. "I'll meet you inside."

It wasn't even past midnight and the club was already so lively. Still, you had no idea who these guests were, but it seemed damn near half the city knew. The line outside to get in wrapped around the entire building.

"There's my girl!" Frédo, your boss, came into the back room to greet you. "Alright so you know the drill, I trust you not to mess up.”

"I never mess up." You slightly sassed. 

"Ma'am, you broke a whole bottle of Don Julio." Willow added, as she always did with her smart ass mouth. 

Sometimes you wished that you could stick a push pin in her bloated lips. You remember when she came to work bragging about getting her lips done by some celebrity doctor downtown LA, but something told you she got them done from an unlicensed friend-of-a-friend.  

"First of all, you bumped into me." You retorted with a glare.

"Ladies, ladies, now is not the time." Frédo diffused the situation before you two could get into it as usual. "I need you to go out there and do your absolute best. And please, be extremely- and I mean extremely careful with these bottles. You do not want to know how much one costs.”

"How much?" Willow challenged. 

Even though Willow was annoying and always liked to test people, you were actually quite curious to know as well.

"Enough to pay for your house, now go!" 

It made you gag sometimes, thinking about how much people would spend on a bottle of alcohol. Sure they can afford it, but a nice $15 wine at the local liquor store would not only give them the same buzz, but also save a whole lot of cash in the long run.

Whatever though.

Nicole met you both at the bar, collecting the bottles that your fancy guests would be drinking tonight. 

"You letting ‘em do body shots on you tonight?" Nicole cheekily asked you. 

"I know I am. You see this bottle of Brandy?!" Willow butted in, holding up the grey bottle. "This shit could really buy me a whole new house." 

You both rolled your eyes at her.

"Hell nah, ion know where they mouths or hands have been. And honestly, I would rather not be thrown up on too, cuz it seems like these folks came to get super lit.”

"Yo' boring ass." 

"Shut the hell up, Willow.”

"Aight y'all, what we need is to make money, not fight. So get your bottles and let's fuckin' go!" 

The both of you grabbed your bottles and headed towards the main area. The music was booming, it was some trap song playing in the background. Bodies crowded the entire room, it was dim, but bright stage lights guided a path to your section. The other girls had already been working on serving other customers, secretly side eyeing you, Nicole and Willow because of the money they could've made tonight.

Initially you were looking down slightly, avoiding the extremely bright lights and the chance of tripping over your own or someone else's feet. But as soon as you looked up, the shininess from the diamonds and gold jewelry resting on the special guests almost blinded you. The men were covered in thick chains, rings, watches, and grills. The women had on diamond earrings, bracelets, chains, necklaces, anklets, and body chains. The whole sha-bang really. 

It might as well have been a jewelry store. On a normal day, you wouldn't even see a quarter of the real gems these people had on. 

They were dripped out from head to toe in designer clothes too. This entire section could probably build a city with the prices of everything they had on their bodies from head to toe. One lady had on a platinum blonde straight wig, and you knew she didn't pay any less than $1000 for it. It was almost intimidating, all this money in one place.

 As you got closer to your section, the esteemed guests started to cheer. There were tons of male voices with a few females here and there.  

Taking a closer look you could start to make out some of the faces of each individual. Some were rappers, models, social media influencers, actors, and singers. The crowd was full of the different shades of melanin, and for that you were very happy to see it.

Black excellence was truly great. 

Willow and Nicole made sure to entertain their guests with their colourful personalities and willingness to do almost anything that would have their bills paid for a couple months. Hell, you couldn’t blame them. College wasn’t cheap and you had one more year to go. 

While serving the expensive bottles and carrying on as if you cared for the holler and excitement this crowd provided, you could just feel those eyes on you. Despite recognizing a few current and up-and-coming celebrities, male and females alike, he stood out the most. 

No, he wasn’t a rapper nor any celebrity for that matter (…well maybe a little infamous but average nonetheless), only a man who was adored and just so happened to have royal blood flowing through his veins. 

Erik Stevens.

He sat so comfortably in the centre of the VIP section, looking deliberately casual but, so stylish all at the same time. That smug smirk of his appearing once your eyes locked.

It took the strongest urge in you to not roll your eyes as you had the upstanding duty to serve him as he beckoned you over with two fingers. You maintained your professional composure as you guided yourself closer to his table.

“Wassup? Long time no see.” He greets you smoothly, voice cutting through the music. Suddenly, more eyes are turned to you and Erik, particularly the women who sat within an earshot and had their knees turned towards him.

Anyone who was paying attention noticed how he was looking at you - a mix of hunger, possession and unfinished business. 

You take a deep breath before placing his bottle down. Hennessey of course, what else would you expect from him? It was always stored away in his cabinet.  

Honestly, you should’ve taken Willow’s offer earlier and told her to handle Erik instead. You could just feel the tension growing in the air. The judgement was palpable from the other curious guests. However, you had to remain professional. Frédo ingrained those words into your head from the very moment you were hired. No wonder…

“Nice to see you again, Erik.” You replied cooly, disregarding the glares that were shot your way. 

“Is it?” He began, and already you knew it was going to go downhill just from those two words alone. “Seems like you ain’t wanna come over here for real.” He challenged, leaning back and crosing his arms with a grin. You could tell that he knew you were lying, and even more so that you had to keep a poised demeanour. After all, he was one of the highest paying customers. 

You force a smile, “Well, I’m just making sure that everyone is happy and getting all the bottles they ordered.”

“Oh, aight.” He unconvincingly responded. 

One of his drunken rich friends staggered over and plopped down next to him, but not without grazing your hip with a gentle hand to get by. Ugh. He threw an arm around the back of the sofa, oblivious to the current tension. “Bruh, I just invited two baaaad bitches to the section, when I say bad I mean bad.”

Erik was half paying attention to his friend, but his dark eyes were still trained on you.

You stifled a laughter, how many more women could they need? There was more than a handful over here and as far as you were concerned, these were the “bad bitches”!

The friend finally glanced at you, “Bring back two bottles of Patron.” He demanded. 

Your eyes narrowed just for a moment, expressing irritation, but everyone missed it except for Erik. You knew how to smile while conveying a totally different message with your eyes. It was something he picked up on after he would frustrate you and ask what was wrong, in which you always replied, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You heard me?” The drunk asked after you were standing there too long for his liking, apparently… Erik’s grin deepened almost as if he found amusement in your discomfort. 

You averted your attention to the pest, “They’re on the way sir. Just making sure I get everyone elses’ orders before I head back.” 

“Aight then, Miss uhh…” he peered at your bedazzled name tag before saying your name, sarcasm lacing his tone. The others in the section started to chuckle and that was your cue to hurry back to the bar, take a quick three second breather and then head back into the boistrous section. 

You had no issue calling security to kick customers out, hell you’d even do it yourself if you were paid to, but you recognized that bastard. He was a producer, songwriter and had an upcoming line of sneakers that everyone was anticipating. You knew Frédo would’ve been pissed if you got rid of a high profile guests. In fact, he was probably the one who booked out the section.

Typically interacting with the customers was fun and lighthearted, but sometimes you got assholes like that one. Some nights you could get away with retaliating, but this definitely wasn’t one of those.

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, be right back.” You quickly walked away, pinching Willow to get her to follow you back to the bar. Nicole was busy entertaining the other table otherwise you would’ve called her. “Come on girl, we’re refilling the hors d’ouevers and we got two more bottles.”

She was shoving a couple bills into her bra as she stalked behind you, “Bitch, I know you ain’t just take me away to help you get two bottles.”

“And food, you goof.”

“Where the fuck is Nicole? Ginny Vincent was about to take shots from my tits!” She complained. Ginny Vincent was a lesbian rapper, fem presenting but sometimes masculine, especially in her music videos.  

Ignoring her question you got the bottles from the back and shoved them in her hands, “Do me a favour, give these to the table with Killmonger and that ugly bald headed ass producer nigga sitting next to him. Lemme get your tables instead, please.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, “You are not about to take my fun-“

“Girl, I do not want Ginny!” Willow was so incredibly narrow sighted it killed you every time she opened her mouth. “I just don’t want to deal with them right now.”

“Oh you got choices? The amount of girls that would die to be in this section right now and you’re being picky? Crazy.” 

“Willow. For the love of everything good, please shut the fuck up for once. I am literally giving you the table with the most money and the biggest tippers and you’re complaining, for what?” You reach forward to take the bottles back from her, “Actually, you’re right. Lemme just have my bills paid for, for the next year. Since you wanna be grateful and shit, fuck it.” 

You could see the gears finally turning in her head, “Uh, you know what, bitch, my bad. You are absolutely right. I got it, I got it.” She took the bottles back, and cheerfully walked over to the section again, hollering as if her life depended on it.

You took a deep breath again as your eyes rolled drammatically. In the mean time, you got some water and freshened up in the bathroom. With the bright lights and the endless sea of people, you were hot. Unfortunately you forgot your portable fan at home. Not even ten seconds after stepping out of the bathroom you were summoned again. 

“Ah, there you are!” Frédo came from the kitchen, he was definitely yelling at the cooks to hurry up. “Okay, they want one more of those mortgage costing bottles. I only trust you with it, so take it out to that section for me.”

“I was getting them more refills on the hors d’ouevers. Willow and Nicole are-” You tried to stall.

“Not important, now hurry.” He interrupts, shoving the theatric cart towards you. The bottle was in a decorated ice bucket, sparklers coming out from all sides and really, as fun as it was, it was so ridiculous. This one bottle got more attention than some people ever did on their birthday. 

Either way, you put on your game face and hyped up the crowd as you made your way back into that jewelry store of a section. This in turn got everyone else excited too, so many phone cameras were flashing, drunk people cheering on top of their lungs, and onlookers desperately wanting a sliver of the action. 

But as you engaged with the customers and filled new orders, you could feel Erik’s gaze lingering on you like a hawk. You just knew how badly he wanted your attention, even with the other women chatting his ears off, or at least attempting to. They weren’t there before, maybe these were the two bad bitches his friend was talking about.

“Aye!” He called out, voice travelling over the music. Of course he was talking to you, “C’mere.” He beckoned you over. The two women huffed, realizing that they were not priority and decided to walk away. He didn’t even spare them a glance as he trained his eyes onto you.  

You treaded over, this time your face lacked the false pleasantires. “What, Erik?”

“I’m just tryna talk to you.”

“Look, I’m here to do my job. I’m not tryna get into anything with you right now. So just tell me if you need more drinks or-“ 

“More drinks?” He chuckled slightly and scratched his beard, “Nah, I need more company. Ain’t it your job to entertain me?”

You scoffed, “Well we both know what happened the last time we were entertaining each other so pardon me if I have no interest in opening that door again. I got about fifty people to look after.” Your tone was losing its calm. 

He evidently enjoyed this, his smirk grew. “Is that so? I mean, I thought you’d enjoy catching up since you been ghosting me and all.”

“Me!?” Your surprised outburst caught the attention of more partygoers than you wanted. However, what the fuck was he thinking? “You expect me to want to catch up with the man who decided to cheat on me?!”

The music felt quieter now, and the excitement seemed to die down, but maybe it’s because anyone in an earshot was focused on what Erik had to say to you.

“Who else, Miss Bottle Girl?”

“Look, I’m not about to do this with you right now. Are you placing an order or what?”

This had his possy laughing, his friends jabbing at him with remarks suggesting that you have been the topic of conversation at least one time since leaving him.

“So this is the shorty you been telling us about bruh, damnnnn. She ain’t playing witch’yo ass.” One of them chortled.

“Shut up, bruh.” He shot back with a laugh, but the seriousness in his eyes remained as he looked back at you. “You can’t pretend it was all bad.”

“Pretend? Trust me, I’m not pretending. This isn’t a game.” 

“Then what is it, hm?” He leaned forward, challenging you. “Just think about it, if you were so pressed, you wouldn’t be standing here now would you?”

The audacity of this man to try and gaslight you in front of all these people, “I’m just doing my job.”  You retaliated. “It really has nothing to do with you, and I can’t believe you think I’m working this section for you. Had I known you were here I would’ve swapped out.” 

His eyes narrowed, “Stop pretending like you don’t miss me, (y/n).”

“And don’t. So if you don’t place an order in the next three seconds, I’m gonna go tend to my other customers.” You cross your arms, professionalism out the window as you glared at Erik. 

This time he stood up and entered your personal space, “Stop acting like that, (y/n). You know how much you want me. C’mon.” He leans in closer to whisper, the smell of henessey and cologne danced around your nose. “None of this shit matters, I want you back.”

“We’re done, Erik. Get that through that thick skull of yours. Trying to gaslight me in front of a bunch of folks is not playing out as well as you think it is. You just look like a complete jackass.”

“I ain’t worried about them, princess. I know you miss what we had.” 

Anger rushed through you, pushing you closer to the edge. “Miss what exactly? The back-and-forth? The lying? Me catching you with multiple bitches? Please.”

The laughter from the section was fuelling your irritation as well. This wasn’t a fucking reality TV show for his crowd to find amusement in. You decided to drag him out of the section because having people in your business was not ideal, and you were certain some people were recording everything too. 

Your red nail jabbed him in the chest. “You thinking that I miss you is actually insane. What I do miss is what we first had, before I really knew the truth.”

“What truth? That you’re jealous?” His condescending tone triggered a shockwave of fury to flow through your veins.

“Jealous of what?! Seeing my supposed to be man entertain other women while he’s with me. It’s fucking insane that you are still trying to convince yourself that you weren’t the one wo fucked up. Now your ass can’t secure a good woman to save your life and its exactly what you deserve. So when I say this, I mean it in the most disrespectful way. Fuck. You. Erik. Stevens. Fuck! You!” 

“Already did.” He smriks smugly.

Sick of his provocation, arrogance and narrative twisting to make you feel like you were the problem, you grabbed a fruity red cocktail out of a passerbyers hand to which she complained, splashing the drink all over his crisp white t-shirt. 

His face went from shock to anger quickly. There were so many ‘ooos’ and people making noise after witnessing what just went down. 

“What the fuck!?” He pulled his shirt away from his torso. 

“Maybe you will finally get the message now. We are done! Fucking asshole!” You stormed off as he shouted at you come back. Erik was left there, stunned. He underestimated you one too many times. 

This wasn’t nearly as bad as what he did to you, but you felt a sense of victory. It was exhilirating almost. Surely someone recorded it and you were sure that it was going to be all over social media the next morning.

Karma is a bitch, Erik Stevens. You thought to yourself as you made your way to your car. 

Frédo would definitely be infuriated with you, in fact you weren’t even sure if you would still have a job the next day. You wouldn’t even be surprised if you got a million phone calls and long text messages from your boss, coworkers and “unknown numbers”. Either way, you were fed up, done with Erik and ready to take off your damn heels.  

(Start/Finish October 23 2020 - Dec 5, 2024)

It’s funny that I finally found inspiration after getting over whatever I was going through back in 2020. Because I wanted this story to be more lighthearted and typical, but then it took on a new tragectory. Fours years to complete because writers block is a bitch!

This was sitting in my drafts for about 2 months, but I randomly decided to read it and actually really enjoyed how it came out. So, I edited it and boom here it is! (February 24, 2025)

Thanks for reading!

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge: Unleashing the Power of Muscle

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

In 1962, a new era of muscle cars emerged, radiating brilliance and power. Chrysler led the way with their groundbreaking Max Wedge lineup, introducing the world to the fusion of unitized-body construction and the high-performance ram-tuned dual-carbureted 413 CI engine. Among these legends was the Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge, a remarkable vehicle that holds a significant place in automotive history.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

The First Super Stock Max Wedge with Manual Transmission According to the esteemed Chrysler Registry and the meticulous documentation by Darrell Davis, this specific Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge holds a groundbreaking distinction—it was the first Super Stock model equipped with a manual transmission. The car’s odometer displays a mere 6,593 miles and has undergone a meticulous restoration process to return it to its original specifications. Notably, the engine has been upgraded, boasting a dyno-proven power output exceeding 500 HP.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Unleashing the Power of the 413 CI V-8 Engine The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge was powered by the formidable 413 CI V-8 engine. This was the first iteration of Chrysler’s renowned ram induction system, featuring a cross-ram intake manifold meticulously designed to optimize engine efficiency. The engine’s performance was further enhanced by the utilization of cast-iron header-style manifolds, which were rarely preserved but featured in this exceptional vehicle. Dale Reed of California refreshed the engine around 300 miles ago, ensuring its optimal performance. The correct Carter AFB carburetors reside beneath dual black air cleaners, accentuated by carefully placed decals.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

A Unique Manual Transmission Experience One of the distinctive aspects of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is its manual transmission. Unlike its automatic counterparts, this car delivers a unique driving experience through its floor-mounted shifter, allowing the driver to truly feel the power at their fingertips. Paired with a full aftermarket exhaust equipped with cutouts and the robust 8 ¾ Chrysler differential, this Max Wedge offers an exhilarating ride for those who crave the thrill of the open road.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Captivating Style and Authenticity The exterior of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge embodies the spirit of the era. Finished in captivating light blue paint, it exudes a timeless charm. The interior features a complementary blue cloth-and-vinyl combination, while the white-and-blue two-tone trim adds an elegant touch. The front and rear bench seats provide comfort, and the radio delete plate pays homage to the car’s performance-focused nature. Notably, it features a knee-knocker S-W column-mounted tachometer and a beautifully presented trio of rubber pedals. The car’s attention to detail is evident throughout, with the inclusion of circa-1962 chrome fonts, single-lens tail lamps, and OEM steel wheels adorned with poverty-type hubcaps.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Provenance and Documentation Accompanying this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is a wealth of provenance and documentation that adds to its allure. It includes the original OEM IBM punch card and build sheet, which serve as a testament to its authenticity. Additionally, the window sticker provides insight into its original specifications, while the dyno sheet confirms its impressive horsepower rating. Vintage photos capture the car’s early years when it was part of a famous drag car collection, showcasing its illustrious past.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Conclusion The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge stands as a testament to the golden age of muscle cars. With its groundbreaking manual transmission configuration, powerful 413 CI V-8 engine, and captivating style, it represents the pinnacle of Mopar’s storied performance heritage. Meticulously restored to its original glory, this Max Wedge allows enthusiasts to experience a bygone era’s raw power and timeless charm.

FAQs: How many miles does the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge have? The odometer of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge reads 6,593 miles. Who documented the Chrysler Registry for this particular car? The meticulous documentation of the Chrysler Registry for this car was done by Darrell Davis. Has the engine of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge been upgraded? Yes, the engine of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge has been upgraded to a dyno-proven 500-plus HP. What is the significance of the 413 CI V-8 engine in this car? The 413 CI V-8 engine in this car was the first to receive Chrysler’s shortened version of ram induction, known as the cross-ram intake. It maximizes engine efficiency and pairs it with rarely preserved cast-iron header-style manifolds. What documentation and provenance come with this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge? This Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge comes with various documentation, including the OEM IBM punch card, build sheet, window sticker, dyno sheet confirming horsepower rating, and vintage photos of its early years as part of a famous drag car collection.

[microposting]

macro/micro nsft, consensual, f/f, dom/sub, foot fetish, ~1k words

On a lazy weekend morning, a submissive tends to her tiny domme.

on AO3 as well

The fine dust was scraped off the sides of the immersion blender with a butter knife, then smoothed into an even thin layer onto the porcelain tray, covering the thin floral decal for later discovery. On a separate plate, she tugged drupelets off of a raspberry and a blackberry and cut a blueberry in two. Maeve took the tip of her smallest knife and scooped out the seeds in the center, then cut each half into three slices. With the fruits ready, she moved onto the yogurt, dolloping it onto the tray and flattening it against the top. Now time was of the essence. Second by second, the yogurt was further saturating the granola crumbs. Maeve pinched each bit of fruit into arrangement, the blueberry slices forming an array of petals around the pips in the center. 

There.

She allowed herself a second to appreciate her work. 

But just a second.

Maeve tucked the little metal spoon into the yogurt and pinched the tray between her fingertips, ferrying it off down the hallway and into the bedroom. Her eyes shot to the corner of the windowsill to see that yes, Priya was awake, reclining on her cushion. She had her blanket pulled up to her chest and watched the birds, one hand resting on the cool glass. Without glancing away, she motioned Maeve over. 

All these months, and Maeve still couldn’t sneak up on her. Priya could feel her from across the whole apartment. It made her feel stumbling, behemoth, like a walking earthquake.

Maeve padded over and got on her knees, holding the dish out to Priya, balanced on her middle finger. She tipped her head down. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Hi, Maeve.” Priya accepted it. She took her first few bites in silence. Maeve was desperate to see her expression, what she thought of the dish this time around, but her gaze obediently kept to the floor.

“The blueberry is tart,” she finally declared.

Dammit. Last time it was too big, so she went with a smaller berry, but obviously the smaller one would be tarter. Shit. Okay, so next time she could find some similarly sized blueberries, cut each of them in half, sample one half herself, find the ones with the right combination of size and flavor─

“It’s good. Thank you, Maeve.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she murmured. 

“Get yourself some breakfast, Maeve.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She returned to the kitchen, dumped the remaining ingredients into a bowl, and came back to Priya. 

“I had a dream,” Priya said. She continued at her breakfast for a few more bites and Maeve waited in silence. “I had a dream… it was before I shrunk. And we had this ant problem. And it was all you talked about. The damn bugs. We gotta kill all the damn bugs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No…” She sucked on her spoon. “Just a dream.”

At Priya’s request, Maeve opened the window, and they finished breakfast in silence, listening to the birds and the cars. 

“I’m so stressed,” she grumbled.

Maeve bit down a smile. “Are you, ma’am?”

“My neck keeps cracking… my back’s so stiff… I feel like my muscles are barely working.”

“That’s just awful.”

Priya gave her a little smile. “...Could you?”

She was placed delicately facedown onto the mattress. Maeve laid on her belly, propped on her elbows, and stroked fingers down Priya’s back to slide off her silk robe, placed carefully to the side. Priya stretched out, unburdened by clothing, and Maeve took in her smooth skin, her squared buttocks, her twitching little soles. Her pointers settled beneath Priya’s shoulders and her thumbs along her neck. She pressed down, with a steady increase of pressure moving inferior. She continued for several strokes there, then shifted her left fingers under Priya’s breasts and traced her right thumb along her spine. In the middle of her ribs, she pushed her knuckle down in slow circles.

“Mm,” Priya muttered.

So she settled there, for a while, until Priya’s posture shifted and melted in her hand. “There you go,” she whispered. 

“Sorry, am I an orphaned baby bird or something?”

Maeve snickered. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Her fingers spread along the length of her torso and her thumbs traveled in conjunction down the length of her body, spiraling around her shoulders and lower back and her hips. She petted and kneaded and stroked and reveled in every sound and squirm she could stir up from her mistress. Her attention slowly moved distally, from her shoulders to her wrists, her hips to her calves, stopping herself at the ankles. She pinched wrists and hands between her fingertips and gave them their own gentle squeezes. 

Maeve always got a bit melancholy here. There was no finger-by-finger massage anymore, no progression from the meat of her thumb to her fingertip, no sidling her own fingers down the gaps between Priya’s knuckles. Such an obvious expression of how much servile ability she had lost. 

“You’ve been so patient, Maeve,” Priya sing-songed.

Puppy-like, she perked up.

Priya kicked her legs. Her toes dug into the bedspread beneath. “So focused all morning long. And I feel so relaxed now.” She pushed herself around and sat up. Her feet stretched out in front of her, flexing, twisting, flirting. “Finish the massage, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maeve brought her head down, pressed her chin into the bedspread, getting her eyes as close as she could. Her fingertips stroked up Priya’s arch and nestled themselves in the curve. Little toes wiggled against the thick pad. The tickle made Maeve’s heart jump. It was worth squinting for them. So fine, so delicate, so perfectly formed, that high arch and those plump toes and beautiful round nailbeds. Would Maeve have ever pursued her, if Priya hadn’t been so fond of wearing woven leather sandals in sophomore year? Would she have ever known what kinds of spoils lay at the ends of her generous legs?

Her fingertips were too stiff, too clumsy, just a flimsy excuse to open for the main act. She pinched one ankle up into the air and inched her shuddering wet mouth towards it. Every contour molded against the smooth plush of her inner lip just slightly warm and twitching. Her tongue flicked down, and Priya responded with a sharp kick to the teeth.

Maeve hissed and pulled back. 

“Woo me,” she commanded.

“Sorry, ma’am.” 

She elevated Priya’s feet with her fingers. They nested against each other and Maeve planted a kiss on both together. “So gorgeous…” she muttered. Priya giggled. Her lips honed in on a heel, her toes, a ball. “Beautiful, beautiful woman.”

“You’re just saying that to get at my feet.”

She smiled. “I mean it. But I am just trying to get at your feet.”

“Sigh.” she deadpanned. “Pervert. Alright.”

Maeve’s middle finger slipped between her legs and clawed her down to the bed, forcing her legs into the air. Before she had time to even finish her scream, her feet were sucked into Maeve’s ready mouth. Licking, slurping, her tongue riding them back and forth, drooling, enthusiastic.

“EW!” Priya snapped.

Maeve smiled around her ankles.

She got her fill eventually and tried her best to dry off Priya’s poor abused feet. So fine, so pretty… she allowed herself another kiss.

Priya kicked her lips off. She stretched out, smoothing out the bedsheets around her. 

“Was it a good massage, ma’am?”

“Mm-hm…” Priya motioned Maeve in and planted a kiss on her lower lip. “But I’m still a bit tense… I could use a bath, I think. A proper one. Something to soak in…”

She’d have to somehow improve on last week’s oat-honey-milk-flower-petal concoction. A worshipper’s work was never done.

[myfriendtheurbanlegend]

26-year old article about Jim Caviezel from the Seattle Times. I remember reading it and liking it very much but it has been deleted from their site so I'm copying it here in its entirety.

The Unexpected Star -- Jim Caviezel's Stubborn Sincerity Cuts A Swath Through Hollywood

By Richard Seven

AT FIRST GLANCE, Jim Caviezel's big, ocean-blue eyes seem little more than the requisite work tools of a movie star.

They were as polished as new-car paint in "The Thin Red Line," the impressionistic World War II movie that catapulted him toward celebrity. In his role as Private Witt, Kentucky-bred GI existentialist, he spent much of his time standing by like a battlefield aura, staring and soaking in the chaos. In one powerful scene, he communicated shock, fear, helplessness and then joyful peace in a 15-second span using nothing but his gaze.

His look has always grabbed attention, at least as far back as 1987, his senior year at Kennedy High School in Burien, when he was voted "boy with the prettiest eyes."

They are more than props of a pretty boy, though. Look closer and you'll see an earnestness staring back that announces what or how he's feeling and reveals he is far more Skagit Valley, where he grew up, than Tinseltown.

In fact, at 30, Caviezel finds himself a Hollywood commodity in part because he's not Hollywood at all.

He has a child's curiosity that lets him introduce himself to Al Pacino, Magic Johnson or any stranger who grabs his attention. He looks flush at you when he talks about his Catholic faith, or his determination not to let learning difficulties slow him or fame change him. He is direct and intense, once frightening a casting director while portraying a menacing jerk. "I didn't get the part," he recalls.

He can seem quaintly courteous, yet possesses a righteous temper. While walking through the Los Angeles airport once with his wife, Kerri, he sighted a known scam artist posing as a priest and soliciting "donations." Caviezel pointed, shouted "You're a fraud!" and hunted for security guards.

There are times he burrows into a hyperfocus so strong it seems a trance. Other times, his thoughts drift like smoke while someone is talking to him.

He struck casting directors as over-eager or spacey when he was struggling. Now that he has momentum, they consider him fresh. Idiosyncratic director Terrence Malick saw something new when he chose Caviezel (ka-VEEZ-uhl) to be Witt, the spiritual core of the Oscar-nominated film, instead of Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt or Matthew McConaughey.

Caviezel has finished supporting roles in two high-profile movies opening this fall and is starring in one set for spring. He receives several scripts a week, studio brass are dangling projects, and fashion designers, in their way of rewarding people more the less they need it, send him free clothes.

His run could stop at anytime and for any reason, but the debate in Hollywood isn't about whether he's got what it takes. What they wonder is how a wide-open Northwest man with a strict moral code, an aggressive sincerity and windows for eyes can survive in an industry that runs on illusion.

Back in December, as photographers crowded Caviezel at the premiere party for "The Thin Red Line," friend and co-star Sean Penn walked up, put his arm around his shoulders and whispered, "I don't know how you're going to last in this business. You don't fit in."

It was both compliment and caution.

AT 5:15 A.M. CAVIEZEL has the dark lanes of Beverly Glen Boulevard to himself as he drives his 1993 Honda Accord, with a University of Washington "W" decal on the back window, from his Sherman Oaks apartment toward UCLA. He is headed for a two-hour workout before a day of research and practice for a potential role as an autistic man.

Two nights before, his face and wistful look, magnified on a movie screen, had dominated the best-picture clip for "The Thin Red Line" during the Academy Awards.

He is 6-feet-2, a slender 185 pounds, with short, coal-black hair and an angular face with high cheekbones. In the dim dashboard glow, he looks far younger than in the movie, perhaps 22, the age at which he moved to L.A. to become an actor in early 1991.

He never considered the impossible odds then. He was so confident that he struck people as naive or cocky, like when he was dumped into a garbage bin at Mount Vernon High School as a freshman for saying he planned to make the varsity basketball team.

He was a gifted mimic, even as a kid, doing imitations of Mr. T, the gruff goon on TV's "The A Team," and others. He made people laugh and felt warm in the spotlight. He modeled clothing and appeared in a few Seattle-area plays. He got his Screen Actors Guild card after scoring a 10-second part in the Northwest-filmed "My Own Private Idaho." Playing an airline ticket-taker, he said, "Do you have any bags to check?" and "Have a nice flight."

A local talent agent said he had what it took, and that was all the nudging he needed.

"I came down here with the same sort of expectations I had as a freshman at Mount Vernon, and I got pummeled again," he says, his soft monotone harmonizing with the hum of tires on road. "I didn't know what acting was, and no one down here cares if you make it or not. I was pressing, and it showed."

He still hasn't veered much from the over-achieving straight arrow who studied hard and dreamed big while growing up in a close-knit family unified by Catholicism and basketball. His father, James Sr., a longtime Mount Vernon chiropractor, was a high-school All-American and played at UCLA for Coach John Wooden. All five children - Ann, Jim Jr., Amy, Tim and Erin - played college ball.

Jimmy, as they call him, had the least relative ability but worked the hardest. While his younger brother, Tim, a highly recruited high-school player in 1990, hoisted half-court shots on the family's court, Jimmy did ball-handling drills. He transferred as a junior to O'Dea High School in Seattle because it was a Catholic school and seemed to offer a better chance to play basketball. He moved to Kennedy as a senior and started at point guard. He lived with friends, commuting home to Conway, a Skagit Valley town just south of Mount Vernon, on weekends.

He played two years at Bellevue Community College. Coach Ernie Woods says Caviezel was the hardest worker he had in 30 years and also made his mark by charming a Bay Area restaurant owner into giving the team a free dinner during a road trip.

The blend of intensity, personality and faith helped separate him from the hordes of young, good-looking wannabes who swarm L.A.

He was there about a month when he met Father Lawrence Jenco, the Catholic priest who had been held hostage in Lebanon for 19 months in the mid-1980s. Jenco introduced him to Chuck Weber, a USC professor with a big house near Hollywood.

"The idea was for Jimmy to stay a month so he could get his feet on the ground," said Weber. "He stayed more than five years. But that was fine. We'll be lifelong friends."

Cheap rent let Caviezel spend more time practicing and auditioning and less time waiting tables. The early years were dry, but he trudged ahead.

Once, as President George Bush left a fund-raising party at a producer's Malibu home, he pushed between Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell to shake Caviezel's hand. "Nice job" he told Caviezel, who was there not as a guest, but as a server. Bush saw a vote, but Caviezel had made sure he was nearby.

In 1993, he turned down a scholarship to Juilliard, the prestigious New York performing-arts school, to take a bit part in "Wyatt Earp." His role involved a few days of filming, but director Lawrence Kasdan liked him so much he paid him to stay for the entire four-month shoot. When the star, Kevin Costner, needed to go to Seattle, he gave Caviezel a lift in his private plane.

He always did better with people he got to know on the job than with casting directors. His agent, Pamela Cole, says his sincerity can win people over - or throw them off. "Jimmy's not like most actors," she says. "He cares about other people."

AT MID-MORNING, his workout finished, Caviezel heads down Pacific Coast Highway South while Frank Sinatra croons "Strangers in the Night" from the car's tape deck. He points out a beachside restaurant called Gladstone's.

"That's the place to eat breakfast," he says. "I should know. I used to work there." He points to the other side of the highway into the Malibu hillsides. "This is Sean Penn country, too."

The autistic role Caviezel is considering was Penn's before Penn had a falling out with the studio. The men maintain an odd-couple bond developed while filming "The Thin Red Line." Like their characters, Caviezel is the stubborn optimist while Penn is guarded. There was a scene in which Penn's character, Sergeant Welsh, asks Witt, "You still seeing that beautiful light? How do you do that? You're a magician to me." Witt responds, "I still see a spark in you."

The scene was ad-libbed, the two speaking based on their friendship. As in the movie, Penn is both taken and baffled by Caviezel. (Though known for his distrust of reporters, Penn agreed to say something: "Jim's got an almost archaic sincerity, which is very pure - a rare and valuable thing for an actor.")

Long before they met, Caviezel had a dream in which he was acting with Penn. About a year later, in 1996, they were auditioning for lead roles in "The Hi-Lo Country," about two cowboys.

Caviezel was sure it was his break, but he came home one day and found a note from the director saying the studio wanted someone else. He was crushed and decided to give Hollywood six more months and then look for a stable life.

"I gained a little freedom from that," he said. "I decided to quit being so worried about getting the next part and just do the best I could. Instead of doing 10 auditions, I'd only go for the parts I wanted. I'd go down fighting and let people laugh, because I was designing my own life.

"I put my faith in God. It was about Him and my family. It had to be more than about me."

IT SEEMED EVERY ACTOR wanted a role in Malick's first movie in 20 years. He had done only two films, but both were unique and lasting. He made stars out of Martin Sheen in "Badlands" and Richard Gere in "Days of Heaven." Caviezel had never heard of him.

Penn, the first to sign on, suggested Caviezel. Malick planned a feature-length poem and became intrigued by Caviezel's soulful presence. The two dined a few times so he could size up the unknown.

Malick wasn't interested in Caviezel's resume, which was peppered with tiny roles such as a fighter pilot in "The Rock," and a dim-bulb Navy SEAL recruit in "G.I. Jane." In "Ed," perhaps the worst baseball movie ever, his character was cut from the team and movie midway through after Ed the monkey outplayed him at third base. Caviezel's greatest exposure might have been a 1997 job modeling jeans for The Gap on buildings, kiosks and buses across the country.

Malick warned Caviezel not to turn down other offers, but he did, ignoring chances to make television pilots at $100,000 apiece. He was visiting his parents in Conway months later when Malick finally called and said, "You're Witt."

Malick shot enough film for several movies and seemed to be winging it. Big names were axed; featured parts became glorified cameos. Caviezel wound up front and center. The beautiful, meandering movie confounded some customers and critics, but Caviezel was widely praised for how he translated Malick's spiritual vision.

What he does next is critical if he is to keep momentum. His eyes will stare out with menace from the bearded face of a Civil War bushwhacker in "Ride With the Devil," due in October. He's a bad guy, but a complicated one. He plays Al Pacino's estranged son in "Any Given Sunday," an Oliver Stone movie coming in the fall.

He is wrapping "Frequency," a time-tripping thriller in which he stars as a New York homicide cop who learns he can communicate with his dead father, played by Dennis Quaid.

He is weighing other projects, but really wants one still deep in development. It's the story of Jimmy Braddock, an underdog who became boxing's heavyweight world champion in 1935. He is drawn to it because Braddock was a devout Catholic family man.

Directors and producers call Caviezel's charisma "old-fashioned" and liken him to Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart.

"The only thing that scares me is Jim's such a kind soul," said Beverly Dean, his longtime manager, who recalls the lean early years. "The studios all want to be his friend now, but he has to learn to say no."

AFTER CRUISING past Malibu and stopping for juice at a Starbucks (where a pretty woman recognizes him and exclaims, "You look so young!"), Caviezel pulls his Honda to the curb in front of Agoura Hills High School.

Wearing blue jeans, a sweatshirt and glowing-white Reeboks, he walks into a special-education classroom where he has spent days observing and talking with autistic teenagers to prepare for the audition.

The teacher suggests Caviezel sit in a student's desk to see how important routine, such as always using the same desk, can be to an autistic person. The developmental disorder severely limits the ability to make social connections; the teacher warns Caviezel that the student likely would express his displeasure without looking him in the eyes.

"Actually," she adds after regarding Caviezel, "he might look in your eyes."

When the boy walks in, he not only looks Caviezel in the eyes but seems happy to see him.

A few days before, Caviezel had stood in front of the class and told the students about his own learning problems. In 1994, at age 25, he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. He also struggles with dyslexia. He told the students he felt stupid in school because he had to study so much harder than everyone else. He had bouts of frustration that led to fights and was turned down for dates by girls who thought he was weird.

But he learned to use what makes him different and find his talent, he said, and they could, too.

"I'm like you," he said.

While a stretch, it made an impression. One boy walked up and, while looking over Caviezel's right shoulder, said, "Thank you for what you said."

Caviezel won't take Ritalin, the drug often prescribed for ADHD. He uses diet, his early-morning fitness regimen and a Marine's discipline. He has worked on a machine designed to retrain brain waves and enhance focus and found he is exceptionally good at it. There are times his mind feels groggy, as if he just got out of bed, but he also has long periods of crystal clarity most actors can't touch, he said.

It has led to an holistic approach to work. He reads a script dozens of times but doesn't stop at memorization. He tries to understand a character so he can assume the personality.

Jim Schamus, producer and writer of "Ride With The Devil," said Caviezel was by far the most prepared actor on the set. He carefully read the book the movie is based on and pointed out key lines Schamus had missed in his adaptation. Caviezel grilled Schamus about the purpose of the film's violence, became close to its guerrilla-warfare expert and brought a band to the set that played Civil War-era music.

FROM THE HIGH SCHOOL, Caviezel drives to Hollywood and the office of John Kirby, his acting coach. Kirby sits in a corner, surrounded by framed pictures of actors and a poster that begins, "How To Be Creative . . ." Caviezel sits so close their knees almost touch.

The role he is practicing is that of an autistic father fighting to keep custody of his 5-year-old daughter. Caviezel isn't sure he wants it; parts of the script feel manipulative to him.

They run through a scene in which Kirby plays the daughter, asking questions like, "Where does the sky go?" and "Where's Mommy?" Caviezel gropes through his lines, searching for tone, cadence, posture.

Soon, he is pacing across the room and grumbling about getting involved. How can he learn autism in a few days? he asks. He can't afford to bomb the audition, and he is growing agitated. He puts his face inches from Kirby's to make a point.

Kirby calmly offers specific tips and reminds him to lighten up. Caviezel begins using mannerisms he picked up in the classroom, scrubbing the side of his head with his knuckles, pinching his fingertips, rocking and humming. The fidgeting right leg is his own.

The reading flows from there. In a scene where the character defends his parenting ability in court, Caviezel's voice explodes in anger while his eyes bore into Kirby. A look of shock sweeps over the coach's face - until he realizes this is in the script.

Hollywood used to laugh at Caviezel's jock exuberance, Kirby says later, but that's who he is.

"He has such a soul, such a spiritual center, that it is easier for him to show everything," Kirby said. "He's not a cliche. It's real."

BY THE TIME HE leaves Kirby's office, Caviezel feels better about the part. (He eventually auditioned and said it went well, but the movie project has been put on indefinite hold.) He also looks frayed, though. He hasn't eaten all day, and his eyes have reddened.

The question of fame comes up. Hollywood wants to know if he is the re-incarnation of Montgomery Clift, whom he resembles, or a one-hit wonder. How will he handle it once TV tabloids learn how to pronounce Caviezel? Will it all blur his clear-eyed vision?

He becomes solemn. He's aware celebrity comes cheap. He likes to cite what Nick Nolte told him: that fame is a big red balloon, flashy but filled with nothing but air. It grows and grows until there's no room for anything else, and then pop, it's gone.

Besides, he says, he wants to be only famous enough to get good roles and successful enough to someday run his acting career from a place like Spokane. That leads him to talk about his wife, who is not impressed with Hollywood.

They met on a blind date while he was struggling in L.A. and she was a basketball star, Kerri Browitt, at Western Washington University in Bellingham. They rendezvoused at Alderwood Mall and have been married three years. An English-literature teacher, she is, like him, a devout Catholic, serious and small-town, with family roots in Roslyn, Kittitas County, that go back 100 years.

Now that Caviezel seems on the verge of finding the dream he came to Hollywood for, his perspective of the dream has changed.

"I know this can all go away tomorrow." he says. "I've done nothing to brag about, but I thank God I was able to hang on long enough to find that one thing I can do well."

Before merging into the swelling freeway traffic to drive home, Caviezel stops at a gas station on Melrose Avenue. He recalls how, early in his career, he auditioned for "Melrose Place," a soap opera about beautiful but miserable people. He hadn't really wanted the part, but felt he needed to get noticed. The casting director didn't think he fit in. In fact, she thought he was strange and told his agent never to send him again.

Leaning on the roof of his car in the late-afternoon L.A. sun, a few days before flying to the East Coast to film with Quaid, the Melrose memory returns a spark to his eyes, as if he were, again, thanking God.

Richard Seven is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff writer. Harley Soltes is staff photographer for the magazine.

[archeolatry]

So it's getting time for the Renaissance Faire, aka Southern California's longest running Neurospicy Nerd Meat Market. And in the first weekend of building/rehearsing, I have seen many a vehicle covered in bumper stickers and/or decals. I observed one truck with a window decal that said "AD/HD" in the AC/DC font. I've seen it before on shirts and things.

And an idea was had.

Whether or not I actually put it on my own car remains to be seen. (Maybe I'll make one on the Cricut and put it on my laptop. I dunno.)

[raspberry-parfait]

Jimmy's truck headcanons

Jimmy would drive the most clapped out old ass truck you've ever seen

It's at least 30 years old, rusted to shit

Something american. Probably a ford or a chevy (the one in the pic is a gmc)

Transmission is fucked, breaks are fucked, exhaust is fucked, engine is fucked

He fixes everything himself because why would he go to a mechanic when he can fix it just fine? (He can't afford one)

Inside smells like cigarettes

Paid no more than $2000 for it from some friend of a friend

At least 200k miles at time of purchase

Exhaust fucking reeks. Loud as shit.

Seats are peeling and the cushion is showing.

Has had a family of mice in it every winter. They pay rent

Crank windows (obviously)

Some trashy decal the last guy had put on that he didn't feel like removing. Think sexy woman silhouette or "does not play well with others"

Death wobble at 70 mph

"Don't worry about that noise"

Refuses to buy a new truck until this one is dead dead.

The whole time you ride in it you're afraid you're going to die

He never goes below 10mph over the speed limit

Tailgates like a motherfucker

No blinker. Ever.

Rust flakes off any time he gets under it.

The theseus ship of cars because he fixes or replaces something basically every weekend

Held together by bondo, zipties, and a dream (nightmare)

Curly has offered to give him some money so he can buy something safer, but he refuses out of pride and stubbornness.

Takes it to a guy he knows to inspect it because it would never pass in a legit inspection station

The autozone guy knows him by name

God help anyone around if you witness him strip a screw

"Yeah... but she's reliable." WHEN?

Currently driving on a suspended license (curly bailed him out)

Mastered driving drunk (except those times ^)

Vicious love/hate relationship. He'll be yelling at it when he's under it getting rust flakes in his eye but treats it like it's his baby right after he fixes something